songofcopper: (le dauphin de kobaia)
Song: Bloody Murder // Dear Diary
Band: Black Bucket

Black Bucket: the WORST BAND IN THE WORLD. Consisting of: singer/leader/dictator/international supervillain, Draco von Heliotrope; lead guitarist/certifiable numbskull/wig-collector, T. Roy DuBois; synthesiser maestro/wettest ever drip/snivelling hypochondriac, Archie Bogus; dead bass guitarist, Bert Vile (deceased); and unwilling stand-in bassist/ex-roadie/general dogsbody/cowardly collaborator Cameron Blodgett, they harmed ears and souls with their awful songs about horrid things. Thank God you never had to hear them.

...My (well) cover version is MUCH nicer. :-)

If you wanna hear it, CLICK HERE DARLING.

This song sees Draco in an atypically introspective frame of mind. He is going to burn his diary because of what it contains.

You can’t tell but this song wanders around a lot of unexpected territory. Whenever I sing it I think of the ‘vision serpent’. In the Ancient Americas, auto-sacrifice took place: stingray spines were used to pierce the tongues (and, er, sometimes other things) of nobles and priests. The blood was collected on special paper and the paper was burned to release the ‘vision serpent’. I feel like burning yer diary might achieve similar ends.

The question is: what’s in that book that makes it have to die? Is it a confession of actual murder that Draco is burning for legal purposes? Or is the ‘bloody murder’ the ‘murder’ of his diary?


The story of my life, I wrote it down
The story of my life, I tear it down
Do they know?
Do they know?

The story of my life, I want it gone
So I can invent another one
Do they know?
Do they know?

Oh, I know
What I have done
Don’t need you to tell me
Oh, no

The look of a lover has a sweet disguise
Find the fire behind the eyes
Do you know?
Do you know?
Find the fire behind the eyes
All the lies, the tender goodbyes
You know,
I know you know

Say it’s today
It shall be done
DEATH to my diary
Oh, yeah

For there are some things
That never should be written down
Never should be talked about
Oh no, oh no
And there are some days
You wish that you could throw away
Some days you wish would go away
Oh yeah, oh yeah,
Oh yeah, oh yeah


No, I won’t go
I won’t go there
Never again,
No, no



© MMFH 2001/2017
songofcopper: (montesquiou by doucet)
I’m such a contrarian. This is 2017, the world is screaming, laughing, spinning outta control, and yet now, most inappropriately, I seem to have fallen back in love with life.

I think I knew I was going to be ok when I opened one of David’s Christmas presents to me: a book about British galls. I spent most of Christmas Day reading it and getting excited about Spring, when we can go on a proper gall hunt together.

Rightful Inhabitants )

The culture has mined a new depth of decadence: you can now buy bottles of molten iceberg water from Harrods, £80 a pop.

Had it been available to him, our old pal Des Esseintes would probably have ordered in gallons of this stuff, probably for the purpose of bathing in it, followed by an acute and prolonged attack of guilt. Guilt, I think, is the most expensive luxury of all - for those with any residue of good taste. For those for whom ‘taste’ is just a thing Coca Cola has, a brazen lack of guilt is preferred: think of those shameless big game hunters who pose for grinning selfies next to dead elephants.

Yes, guilt is an emotional tax that some of us pay in return for doing wretched things. Some people, however, are temperamentally tax-evasive.


Yesterday the David and I went record-shopping and I bought one! I got this:


“X” by Klaus Schulze. This is one of my favourites. Mostly because of its side-length piece called ‘Ludwig II. von Bayern’.

Glorious Anachronistic Muddle )


Some current reading matter - a curious thing indeed:

Tenebrae by Ernest G. Henham.

Jealousy! Murder! Arachnophobia! )
songofcopper: (Purrodigy)
Last evening I was reading a fascinating article about the ANS - an unusual synthesiser developed in Russia in the 1930s. It was designed in 1938 by a certain Evgeny Murzin and was named after the composer and occultist Alexander Nikolayevich Scriabin. The unusual thing with the ANS is that it is not operated in the conventional way of synthesisers - or of musical instruments in general - i.e., you do not instruct its pitch and tone by pressing or touching it. To quote the article linked above,

‘Instead you etch images onto glass sheets covered in black putty and feed them into a machine that shines light through the etchings, triggering a wide range of tones. Etchings made low on the sheets make low tones. High etchings make high tones. The sound is generated in real-time and the tempo depends on how fast you insert the sheets.’

Splitting the atom of the self )


Another friend started me on another, somewhat-relevant train of thought by discussing the propensity for psychological states to affect physical ones. This meandered towards an idea that it would be fun to have physical states affect musical forces (e.g. your blood pressure hooked up to guitar effects). Immediately my mind was full of hilarious possibilities.

Unwitting automata )


Human will has scant reach, I feel. The last thing I want is Power - or at least, I’m tolerably certain that I don’t have any. Rather, I’m an instrument awaiting a Composer.
songofcopper: (Zzzzzzzappa)
Well, now. My Temples Festival Experience. It was by no means the experience I expected. And you might think, reading the details, that I’d be disappointed. And yet, somehow, I’m feeling positive. Thankful, even. This may be considered strange… but I’m ok with that. Wherever I go in this world I’m a bemused foreigner, a Culture Of One (even in what looks like my own milieu). As long as this is expressed gently and positively, it is no disadvantage.

Visitations )
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 )

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! )
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: (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: (Yay!  Blackadder!)
Decadence is ever en train, chez moi. The other day, a day otherwise untroubled by anything more strenuous than a romp through the thesaurus, I went outside and discovered something foul and rank. (Please, if you are of a sensitive disposition, consider that your final warning.) The drain that leads to the septic tank was overflowing with feculent effluent (…try saying that sixty-two times after a stiff measure of Demerara rum). I was forced to phone the drain-unblockers (is there a one-word title for such pioneers?), who eventually turned up and dealt with the matter (taking most of it away in buckets). To add to the general air of excess and decay, I was charged £145 for the privilege of allowing my friendly local drain-unblocker to rid me of my unwanted gardenful of filth. I daresay a true decadent would have composed an elegy right there in the midst of this avalanche of overpriced shit, but I'm afraid words failed me just at that moment. (I did, however, manage to sluice the patio with disinfectant after the drain-unblocker had fled, clutching my big fat cheque in his mucky paws.)

I can only look to my betters to encapsulate the emotion that swelled through my quivering person in response to this unplanned diurnal upsurge of the night-soil that most properly belongs to the crepuscular churnings of the underworld.

Herewith, a song that I cannot hear without feeling it is essentially an exercise in extended sarcasm. Its title is 'O ravishing delight' (which is almost exactly what I exclaimed when I first laid eyes upon that ordure-ruined patio). The composer is Daniel Purcell, a relation of the more famous Henry of that ilk. The librettist, meanwhile, is William Congreve (it's from 'The Judgement of Paris', and it's the eponymous abductor of fit birds who sings this aria. Incidentally, I learn from Wikipedia that Daniel P. won third prize with his version in a contest to judge the best setting of the masque).

Here are the lyrics - and very delightful they are too.

O Ravishing Delight!
What Mortal can support the Sight?
Alas! too weak is Human Brain,
So much Rapture to Sustain.
I faint, I fall! O take me hence,
Ere Ecstasie invades my aking Sense:
Help me, Hermes, or I dye,
Save me from Excess of Joy.

I cannot find on YouTube the recording I have here at home, in which one Ryland Angel makes mincemeat of those Baroque twiddles that are so beloved of the counter-tenor in full chirp. Instead, have Alfred Deller's rendition.

When the line about Hermes is reached, I can't help but mistake the word for 'Homies'. "Help me, Homies, or I die" - it could be a line from any gangsta rapper's violent soliloquy! It makes me to wonder what other Baroque gems might appeal to the modern-day purveyor of 'urban' music, looking to relieve his or her ennui with something fresh (or indeed, a retread of something so antique as to be freshly novel). Therefore, I propose a new musical genre: HIP-FOP. You know what I'm saying: let's have that unutterable nightingale Iestyn Davies guesting as relief-vocalist on some edgy joint. (Maybe he can soothe the supplanted Beyoncé's jealousy afterwards by teaching her a spot of Handel.) And oh yes, let's rope in Andre 3000 (a dapper dan indeed) - he'd enjoy some eighteenth century costumes, I'm sure…

…No? You don't think this is a good idea? Oh. …I rather fear contemporary culture is not young Cosmé's strong point. Never mind - I'll drag my anachronautick corpse out of the spotlight, I think, and get on with a bit more scribbling. Now, where did I put that thesaurus…?
songofcopper: (Sparks - Big Beat)
…I think only in certain cases. Might the mythick off-duty habits of members of Led Zeppelin comply with the spirit of the equation? You Tell Me… :-)

Anyway, I only ask because I've been out buying lps again. Yesterday saw the return of the regular Second-Hand Music Fair to Exeter, and the David and I spent an interesting few hours turning over the stock.

Serviceable Civilities )

Cosmic Sparks & Pastel Paintwork )

Planetary Reflections in Moodily Depicted Chaos )

One Closing Grotesquerie )
songofcopper: (cessole)
Ok, pop-pickers: I would like you to imagine for a moment that the Borg had swung by 1993 and assimilated 2Unlimited. (Ack!! Exposure to songs like that is one of the key reasons why I felt emboldened to make my own songs. Who, on hearing that hot mess, could not feel confident of being able to do better?!)

Then they go back to 1693 - exactly three hundred years, how about that! - and absorb the poet Anthony Henly and the composer Henry Purcell.

So… what do you get when you mix 'No no, no no no no, no no no no, no no, there's no limit' with 'RESISTANCE IS FUTILE' and filter it through the savoury sensibilities of the Baroque era…?

Well, my friends, you get This.

No, no, no, no, Resistance is but vain,
And only adds new weight to Cupid's Chain:
A Thousand Ways, a Thousand Arts,
The Tyrant knows to Captivate our Hearts:
Sometimes he Sighs imploys, and sometimes tries
The Universal Language of the Eyes:
The Fierce, with Fierceness he destroys:
The Soft with Tenderness decoys.
He kills the Strong with Joy, the Weak with Pain:
No, no, no, no, Resistance is but vain.

This song is dangerously addictive. Methinks I'll be burbling gently about Cupid's Chain as I wait for the kettle to boil, or for the photocopier to eject its clone-spawn, for some time to come. (You've got to sing something at times like that, haven't you?) I can almost forgive both 2Unlimited and the Borg for their respective crimes against good taste and individuality, or at least adjudge them redeemed by a healthy injection of Purcell! Indeed, 'tis true. In the face of a needlingly moreish song, Resistance is but vain!
songofcopper: (Sparks - Big Beat)
What is this? All on a dingy December morn, sometime in eighteen-ninety-something, here's a befogged street corner, illumined by the orange hue of Cosmé's poppy-blazoned blouse.

Must adjust hat to louche angle before venturing forth to sell scandal sheets to wannabe aesthetes.

A street corner? Not a nice place for a well-brought-up article of the Cosmé type, surely!

But Stay: "Extra! Extra! Read all about it," the creature cries.

Ah, that's what it is: the dear thing has found a little job! Well, you know, 'The Haut Boy's Own Paper*' shan't sell itself (and neither shall Cosmé, before you say such a thing, thou slyness!). [*This estimable organ may perchance be an ancestor of 'Cor Anglais!' mag.]

Op-Art-Nouveau )

In Other News, one of our regular Thursday bookshop customers (our Pop.Cult. aficionado) tipped me off that there was a copy of Sparks' self-titled debut lp in the record shop next door. (Pedants, sit down: yes, on its first release it was Halfnelson's self-titled debut lp, until Halfnelson changed their name to Sparks and re-released the album.) It's a weird record, with a sort of warped-calliope, demented-cute air.

The band photo gives you a clue - Russell (2nd left) looks sweet in his sailor suit but Ron (far left) has evil-clown hair and kohl-rimmed eyes.

Cheerfully-Defiant Eccentricity )
songofcopper: (Purrodigy)
Yes, a Merry Frippmas indeed! I made a discovery the other day, in WH Smiths of all places - or to be more precise, the back page of 'Prog' magazine, which some enterprising soul had liberated from its cardboard envelope. (I still can't believe it costs £8-ish per issue - there doesn't seem to be £8-worth of things in it, really, although you do get a free CD… still, this example, having been shop-soiled, seemed like fair game, so I don't feel too guilty for having had a brief look at it.) Anyway, it wasn't the heinous price that was discovered - actually, it was a recipe for Christmas Cake provided by Bob'n'Toyah! :-) There is something very right about that - Mr F. is, after all, extremely fond of cake. (I expect a Toyah-approved Christmas Cake might well have some kind of flamboyant decoration - orange, silver, feathers…?)

(Another discovery was that someone had roguishly relocated a naturist magazine into the very prominent display stand intended for 'Mojo'… I didn't even know they stocked naturist magazines in WH Smith - I wonder if they sell many?)

Further seasonal/musical/retail oddness - I saw a person carrying a White Stuff carrier bag in town, bearing the slogan 'Seasoned Greetings'. Well, I don't know about you, but as far as I'm concerned 'Seasoned Greetings' is a song off 'Meet the Residents'. I guess it's slightly festive, in a disconcertingly off-kilter way, but it doesn't quite go with cosy sweaters…! Inevitable next question: I wonder if any store has adopted 'Santa Dog' as its seasonal mascot?! ;-)

But returning to Frippmas - on my way home from work today I made yet another discovery! There is currently a pop-up record shop in one of the arcades in Exeter. (Grr, 'pop-up shops' - I'm not sure why that phrase annoys me so much, but… it does. Today it made me think of Frank Zappa: 'Psychedelic dungeons popping up on every street'!) I had time to look at it, and whilst the stock is small (and about half of it is new, unfamiliar stuff from the local record label - Specialist Subject Records - that is running the enterprise), there were many bargains. Lots of classic lps for as little as £1 each - wouldn't that be fantastic, if you were a cash-strapped student? Could be the beginning of all manner of musical discovery in several genres. But my find of the afternoon was 'Exposure' by none other than Mr Robert Fripp, which I've been looking for for some while. Well - it found me, didn't it!


Man with a Five-Year Plan )


Saturday, 23 November 2013 13:44
songofcopper: (Da Zess!)
D'you remember a while back my little mail order misadventure? An attempt at buying Mëkanïk Dëstruktïẁ Kömmandöh on lp via the wonders of the online 2nd-hand record market? That ended unexpectedly in sheer Mozart - an interrupted cadence, one might say. (Indeed, one just did. GCSE Music thus finds its function: informing these blogly witterings with a filmy sheen of semi-education...)

Unresolved Musical Tension is a blight on calm, as you must know. But soon afterwards another copy appeared for sale, this time in far better condition and still at a very grabbable price. I gamely grabbed, sensing a satisfyingly plagal conclusion to this toccata-'n'-fugue hoving comfortably into place.

But the Koszmik Komposzer has a sense of humour. (Well, I'm calling it 'a sense of humour' out of stubborn optimism. It might be more like 'a sense of cruel glee'.)

I had to prod the seller (gently, not in any very senstive parts) to get an invoice out of him. Then I commenced to wait for shipping... and wait... and wait... and-- WAAAIIITTT a minute, what is going on here?! You have my pounds, feller. Lob the round thing in my direction, won't you? I sent him a polite message asking for an update. Cue SIILLEEENCCEEE. (That's what a deafening silence looks like typed out, d'you see?) Our friend the Koszmik K. was obviously experimenting with the effective deployment of rests.

Time oozed on in its habitual way. I decided it was time to say Stern Things. Instead of using the Discogs message function, I sent the chap a direct email. (Well, there might have been a technical issue with messaging...) Stern Things (couched in terms of clipped politesse undercut with ominous threat such that only the English language may convey) duly offloaded, I was favoured - at long last - with a reply.

It was priceless. "Sorry," says the bloke. "I'm in Europe at the moment. I'm on tour with my band."

Now, I don't know about you, but in my opinion 'I'm on tour with my band' is just about the ideal excuse for such circumstances. There's something classic about it, it's almost as solemnly symbolic as 'The dog ate my homework' or 'I have to work late tonight darling'.

This delighted me severely, and I commenced to wait some more (the chap was not due back in this country for a little while).

Eventually, my round thing did arrive - and I am very happy to say that it was worth the anticipation! Condition as described: sleeve in good nick, side 2 looks unplayed - rather as if Zeuhl intolerance/buyer's remorse kicked in after the original purchaser had spun side 1 - and lyric insert miraculously present. It has enjoyed an outing on the turntable and is thereby officially welcomed to the household. I'm happy to give it a loving home! :-)



'Kobaïa iss de hundin' may mean 'The Eternal is Infinite' (or perhaps 'Eternal is the Infinite'), and a round thing (a Zund!) may have no beginning and no end, but we have here a dénouement - maybe not 'la fin des fins', but I guess the old Koszmik Komposzer is working up to that one. I am still not 100% convinced that buying lps online is something my nerves can stand, but at least I got my plagal cadence in the end. ;-)
songofcopper: (france gall)
The other day, I was out in town Experiencing the Present-Day Culture. As you will by now have guessed, this is not strictly speaking young Cosmé's milieu - but I go in anthropologically, so to speak, finding that curiosity always outstrips insularity.

The Café of Organically Amplified Effusions )

Where English Ain't Sung )

The Francophone Original )

Orchard Avenue )
songofcopper: (21 with clock)
I'm told that today - 11th October - is officially recognised as Coming Out Day.

And so:

In honour of anyone who has ever had to invoke bravery in the exercise of honesty,
In honour of anyone who gets plastered with a label before they get called by their name,
In honour of anyone for whom there is and can be no label,
In honour of everyone, because the business of living is really the business of coming out as yourself - whoever that may be, is an appropriate song.

Initiate Emergence! )
songofcopper: (CAKEZ!!!)

"Music (of quality) provides nutriment - spiritual calories. We all need these and are actively, though often unconsciously, seeking them out."

That thought from the other day has not left me alone since. Food, I think, is the only useful metaphor (that I've yet encountered) for the Substance of Music.

(Yes... the Substance of Music. It can be present or not-present, it can be perceived, it can be made and it can be contained. It can only be destroyed in the way that anything can be 'destroyed' - by being broken down and remade into something else.)

I've always felt that the only helpful way to describe music is to invoke food-language. You can't get far by explaining that the Joe Bloggs Band sounds a bit like the Fred Jones Group crossed with the Mary Smith Quintet - this is of limited help to anyone who hasn't heard Fred Jones or Mary Smith... or indeed to anyone who dislikes Fred Jones or Mary Smith.

But if you say that the Joe Bloggs Band combines richness with astringency, or spiciness with a lick of salt, that gives an immediate, visceral notion of what it might be like. Most people eat food, let's face it.

So there's that.

But it struck me suddenly, powerfully, yesterday, that how we make, share and consume music - how we prepare it, how we give and receive it - is exactly like our behaviour around food. Going way beyond the dotty linguistic tropes favoured by yer hapless scribe (*waves!*), our music, culturally, exhibits the same tendencies as a cuisine.

It was the word 'hobby' that got me to this thought. I had read two people's remarks on 'music as a hobby', and somehow that word rankled - it felt incorrect from my perspective. When I'm making music, it's not something I do to pass the time or to give me something to talk about at parties. (I'm not suggesting that this is really the aim of many people who make music, by the way - just that the word 'hobby' is not quite apt.) There is also this idea of separation between 'work' and 'hobby', and a thought that for each participant, music is one or the other. We have, alongside that, this notion of 'turning one's hobby into a career' - which tends to be characterised either as The Ultimate Ideal or Utter Blinkin' Sacrilege.

When I put this dissatisfaction with the word 'hobby' next to thoughts on music-as-food, suddenly it became obvious.

What I am doing is not an optional entertainment activity - it's as necessary and automatic as cooking a meal.

Breaking Bread )
songofcopper: (pendigestatory interludicule ^_^)

Perhaps when we respond to a music it is filling up a space within us/going to meet an appetite/our appetite is going to meet It. Music (of quality) provides nutriment - spiritual calories. We all need these and are actively, though often unconsciously, seeking them out.

Grammatical Gravy )

Good old Universe. It's a bit like Staples: 'You want it, we got it!'

Permit me, gentle reader, to elaborate. (And, cheekily, to address you as 'gentle reader'.)

Thursday night, I Ooood the Tooob in search of the luminous Mr Fripp. A small urge to cup an ear around his well-received album 'Exposure' led me hither and yon.

Circular Encounters )


songofcopper: (Default)

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This journal is not a private diary, it is more like an occasional, imaginary column. Therefore, much of it is on public display. However, if you want to read my occasional attempts at creative writing, my Caution Elf tells me I should only show that stuff to my friends. You know what to do. :-)

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