Music For Real Airports - The Black Dog

Back in ’89, when Black Dog were breaking beats, they cut a track called ‘Ambience With Teeth’, which wasn’t ambient music, and nicked Stevie Wonder’s keyboard riff from ‘I Wish’. Now, this new album fulfils the promise of that title.

   Perhaps this is a dig at Eno’s fluffy ambience, the dreamy nature of which could considered less appropriate post-9/11. That’s not to say I think that Ken Downie and Richard and Martin Dust have made a statement regarding today’s potential for terror in the skies. Yet, as the title states, this take on the airport experience does reflect reality and there’s something of the dread, rather than the dream, about it’s generally sombre tone.

   When they do use beats they’re underpinned by dark drones as if to mirror both the thrill of high-powered propulsion and the fear it can induce. ‘Future Delay Thinking’ exemplifies the idea that the inherently futuristic concept of modern flight is tinged with dark foreboding – as if we might ask of all this technology “It’s a thrill, but is it right?” When Eno painted his sonic portrait of the airport, those good old days of flying were, for most of us, terror-free, and guilt-free regarding the environment.

   With titles such as ‘Wait Behind This Line’, ‘Sleep Deprivation’ and ‘Strip Light Hate’, you get the message. Arriving at the sombre beauty of ‘Wait Behind This Line’, I begin to see airport regulatory control as a symbol of state/social control in some way. Whatever the intent, it makes for an intriguing listening experience, and not always as predictable as each title suggests. You might expect ‘Delay 9’, for instance, to translate into anger and frustration, but here the dreaded message is interpreted with a poignant reverie featuring strings and background chatter.

   Black Dog have travelled a long way from breakbeat and techno to arrive at a place that’s not easily categorised musically, which suits the neither-here-nor-there nature of airports perfectly. It is ‘ambient’ but also edgy, just as to fly can be exciting and dull.

   Airports may be, as JG Ballard suggested, ‘gateways to the infinite possibilities that only the sky can offer’, but Black Dog echo the earth-bound experience, whilst still allowing our imagination to fly free.

Moondog and Suncat Suites – Kenny Graham And His Satellites

Album of the week/moment/year – top marks to Trunk for digging up this Joe Meek-produced gem. Graham got hip to Moondog way back in ’57 and this is the result. Some tracks are very much in the same vein as recordings by the cat named Sun Ra when he was exploring the exotic. There’s no escaping the influence of Les Baxter either, of course. It’s full of quirky charm and strict adherence to the spirit of worldly ease, i.e., there’s no dirty bopper-style blowing, but there are some extremely cool solos, especially on ‘Sunbeam’ and ‘Sunday’ (from Graham’s ‘Suncat Suite’, which forms the second part of this release). Amongst the big UK names involved are Stan Tracey and Phil Seaman, the latter adding a great deal to ‘Sunstroke’. Wonderful album. Listen here if you have Spotify.

Rosemary's Baby (Roman Polanski, 1968)

My granddad once said to someone who expressed their fear of walking through a grave yard: ‘It’s not those below the ground you have to worry about, it’s those above.’ Whilst that’s not strictly true in this film, the creepiest characters are undoubtedly not the Devil, but his ambassadors, the Castevets, brilliantly played by Sidney Blackmer and Ruth Gordon. Gordon rightly won Best Supporting Actress for her role as the overbearing neighbour to poor Rosemary.
   Thankfully, although in lesser hands than Polanski’s it would have seemed obligatory, the Devil’s spawn is never shown to us. We are left to imagine a baby with evil-looking eyes. The decision I would criticise is how the Devil is depicted. His appearance would have been better left to our imagination too. It’s not easy depicting the Devil without him looking ridiculous, I suppose, although part of me thinks that a modern make-up or special effects department could do a better job now. Thankfully his form here just about verges on the right side of horrible, as opposed to hammy (‘My, what long fingernails you have!’).

   The real horror is, of course, in watching Rosemary’s physical decline to the point where a friend says ‘You look like a piece of chalk’, and her terror when realising what is going on. Mia Farrow is perfect for the role, exuding innocence combined with the child-like quality determined by her build. Cassavetes is great too as the forceful husband, conveying, but never overplaying, menace and cold-hearted determination.

   There are a few ways to get ahead in Hollywood, like sleeping with the right people, having your parents push you into stage school, being beautiful or handsome, schmoozing around at the right parties...or joining a witches coven and offering your wife to the Devil. As far as I know, this has only happened in Polanski’s film, but some might say that their contracts amounted to a pact, if not a sexual liaison, with Satan. How else do you explain the amount of bad films Michael Caine’s been in?

   Ultimately, Rosemary’s repulsion is tested by the mighty strength of motherhood, whereby we all may question whether this bond can overcome absolutely anything. Let’s face it, many a mother still loves her son even though he turns out to be a little devil.

On the boulevard of broken dreams...

From Miles ‘live’ at The Blackhawk to Juliette Greco – you get the connection – a fine listening experience...a romantic liaison between the ultra-cool of 50s America and French song...notes and words float through smoke from Gauloises and Marlboro...this imaginary interior, combining a Parisian cellar bar and Birdland...such a place can only exist in your mind’s eye...your dream wills it into existence...

   Then, ’round midnight, you walk the monochrome streets of this dream...they glisten from a recent shower and echo to the feint sound of Bud Powell’s piano...Dexter Gordon’s saxophone...ghosts in exile...this must be Paris but you glimpse Miles being lead away by a cop, blood splattered down the front of his jacket...

   You walk with no direction in mind...you seem to be floating, seeing the streets as if through the eye of a camera...and here comes a figure, a woman. As she nears you recognise her...it is Jeanne Moreau. You would speak but in this world you have no voice...you pass each other...she is untouchable and you would not want to touch her because that would break the spell...she is destined to remain elusive and perfect for that very reason...

   Now Juliette is singing ‘La Chanson de Catherine’ which triggers a switch to colour, another time and place...where Miss Deneuve is strolling the streets in her mac...this is Cherbourg? Juliette’s voice has faded, replaced by the music of Michel Legrand, and you feel joy to be in such a brilliant place surrounded by lush orchestration...sights and sounds which overwhelm you...sensations amplified by the appearance of a dance troupe moving through a perfectly colour-coordinated world...

   It cannot last forever and as much as you wish that it would, you know that these visions are destined to be ephemeral, real only in the moment, not even memories for longer than the first few seconds of awakening...

(Spotify) Play For Today 20/4/10

Some tunes I've been enjoying today. I've tried to order them as I would play them out if I was still DJ-ing (ie, with some kind of continuity). Most Spotify lists are too long but this is an old-fashioned LP length and won't take you long to skip through. I especially like Alex Smoke's fusion of minimal-tech and John Adams-style orchestration (it may even be a sample?). Joker's 'City Hopper' (left) is also a current favourite. Defunkles (awful name!) manage the tricky task of making a very good Miles 'In A Silent Way'-style tune. Comments welcome.

A Literary Spring Clean

The rapidly growing pile of books-to-go.

I’m thinking of selling myself on eBay. Why not? Perhaps I’ll do it for a prank. ‘One man. Soiled. No good at DIY. 1st edition. House-trained. Doesn’t mind doing housework if owner is rich and beautiful. Starting bid: £5.99.’

   Spring is kind of sprung so some cultural cleansing is in order. Not that I only do it at this time of year; I’m always getting rid of literary and musical clutter but have been gripped with a feverish enthusiasm for shipping out stuff over the last few days, so the process begins. 

   Look at all those books...I never did read ‘Ulysses’ (wish I had a fiver for everyone who’s said that)...but we buy these things in fits of optimism/determination, don’t we? Perhaps we think ‘I can read and these are just words...it’s a legendary book and I will damned well get through it!’ Fat chance. I gave up trying to be more intellectual than I really am years ago. Who would I be trying to impress? I’ve met few females that demand knowledge of Joyce as a prerequisite to a shag. Perhaps that’s because I never went to no university. At my secondary school you didn’t need to know a thing to win favour with girls. You had to look right, of course. Being a good dancer helped. I can dance. I danced better then, probably.

   All those books...the habit is bad, I confess, but you know what it’s like, that inability to resist a second-hand shop and the inevitability that there will be something cheap and appealing enough to spend a few quid on. Nowadays I try to be strict and look for the odd, rare, classic pulp and so on. But there’s always something.

   I joined a book swap club a few months ago. Initially it seemed like a great idea and I swapped half a dozen. Now all I get is requests for my goodies in exchange for lists filled with Nick Hornby, self-help books, Terry Pratchett and John Grisham. I keep getting emails saying a reader wants to swap with whatever and their lists are always full of shit. This tells me two things (that I already knew deep down) that most people have poor taste and those who don’t aren’t eager to swap their precious books. Well I’m funny like that. As much as I would be considered to have slightly more refined literary taste than Mr & Mrs People I’m not that precious about all the good books I’ve read. I’m not a big keeper. I only have good taste according to your too, naturally. I’m leaving that swap club.

   I’d eBay a lot but you know what you get for books on there? Bugger all, virtually, unless they’re collectable. I used to think that if you put something good on eBay it would sell – doh! It’s a buyer’s market, isn’t it? That applies to everything. Yet, I still see optimists on eBay listing books that are common as muck, priced too highly, and sitting with ten others. For a laugh I thought I listing everything for a penny. But that would be a stupid gesture of defiance in the face of consumerism...and constant trips to the post office are no fun.

   So I’m off to the book shop this week to get 20p per book and to hell with it. It always feels good (as long as I can ignore what I paid for them). Ditto music. I recently sold to Record & Tape. I was still happy to get 50p a record. Instant cash is gratifying. I spend the money on more books and music, naturally.

How Cool Is Cool?

Here's to the clear, peaceful blue skies...



It ain't Summer but it felt like it...so...Anita....jazz on a summer's day...

It's Madison Time!

Claude wasn't one for shying away from a double dance craze cash-in session, was he? A new arrival into the bunker - no pictures on the 'net so I had to take one - christ, the trouble I go to. Still, as I'm tempted to eBay it this'll come in handy. I'm only mildly tempted though because, well, just look at the cover. And now that I'm listening to their version of 'Take Five' I really don't know if I could part with it, not because they do a fantastic job (although it's decent enough), more because I'm a sucker for that tune. Some of the tracks are pretty good too.  They have 'Twist' or 'Madison' after the titles, just in case buyers were stupid enough not to recognise the difference.

    It's great to hear Ray Bryant's tune played by a big band but I think they take the tempo a little too fast. I mean, I'm no Madison expert but you'd have to move some to fall in with this. Don Draper would never try it but I reckon some of the youngsters in the office would have a go. Pete has already proved his skills at cutting the rug in a 20s style, but I can't see him doing The Madison either. Here's a handy diagram from the back of the sleeve...

The French dance connection...any excuse to post this...

Isolation Cityscape

Sam Spence Sounds

I do love my vintage synth sounds, yes. I was going to add ‘who doesn’t?’ but that would be presumptuous, eh? So my afternoon has been enhanced by discovering Sam Spence’s album ‘Sam Spence Sounds’ (Finders Keepers).

   I’d tell you all about Sam but a) I haven’t researched him, b) I wonder if it really matters who he is or what he’s done, c) if you were bothered, you’d look him up, d) I’m not doing the damn work for you.

   Remember a time when information on artists was scarce? You relied on the sleeve notes being filled with biographical material or an article in a magazine. Today we can find out all about everyone but that’s not necessarily a good thing, is it? Not if, like me, you enjoy preserving a mystery sometimes.

   Ironically, now we find out things about people we have no interest in via the media, which floods our already info-saturated eyeballs. Oh rotten world of info overload.

   I did go through a phase in the BPC years of reading musical biographies. It felt necessary to know all about Art Pepper’s not-so-straight life, for instance, or the thoughts of an artist situated beneath the underdog such as Mingus. I don’t read those kinds of books today, perhaps because, having acquired the moniker of ‘Snobin’ by a friend, jokingly, I reject what others can know so easily, even if that knowledge pertains to an artist of great merit. That is not true, of course; I’m simply not interested in reading biogs, these days.

   Sam even plays some cheesy Prog Pop in the form of ‘Sylvia’ – and it doesn’t diminish my pleasure one bit. On ‘Flying Low’ he goes all harpsichordal. It’s pretty bad, but I still forgive him because it is of its time. And it’s followed by ‘Moog Shot 25’ – 1min 11secs of low end Moog moodiness, which is brilliant. I’m all for brevity, the kind of which is often a feature of classic early synthesizer albums.

   On ‘Wie Ein Blitz’ Sam creates what sounds like The Shadows meet Sounds Orchestral with a funky backbeat – very 60s poptastic. Follow this, as the selectors have, with ‘Moog Shot 22’, then ‘The Net’, and you’re given the flavour of Sputnik-era Pop Futurism.

   Ah, the future was so much better in the old days, eh?

Sweet Night Stains Me

 

I Am Truly, Deeply and Sincerely Sorry

Henri-Georges Clouzot's Inferno

Bromberg and Medrea’s film documents a tragedy and a kind of madness in the form of Henri-George Clouzot’s vision and his inability to turn it into a finished film. So the hallucinations of the jealous husband at the centre of the story in turn seem to represent the torment of the director.

   With a limitless budget courtesy of Columbia Clouzot had everything he could want except the discipline to complete a potential masterpiece called Inferno. With no-one to assist or control him, Clouzot became as obsessive as the husband. The film became the lover he idealised, scrutinised and unwittingly destroyed. The scenes we can see stun the senses with both their beauty and the psychosis they depict.

   Romy Schneider is gorgeous, and Serge Reggiani is perfect as an average man who, like Clouzot, is consumed by the magnificence of what he covets.

   Radical colourisation, electronic sound, kinetic art, voice manipulation; Clouzot was aiming to incorporate all forms of modernism circa 1964 into this film. But being an insomniac he also drove those who worked for him to the point of total fatigue by demanding that everyone adhered to his work pattern.

   Reggiani finally jumped ship, and Clouzot had a heart attack. It appears to have been a kind of relief for those enduring his anguish whilst also suffering themselves.

   This documentary is worth owning for tantalising glimpses of what was filmed. The reality of what happened is heartbreaking. Like us, Clouzot could only dream of what might have been.

Dave Brubeck

It's Dave Brubeck...on a magic carpet...very odd...

The Driver (Walter Hill, 1978)

Did the reading of the Dinos brother’s Bangwallop (s)mash-up of Ballard’s Crash subliminally prompt me to buy this film?

It has one of the greatest soundtracks never written in the form of wailing cop car sirens during the first chase.

Isabelle Adjani’s big brown eyes are as seductive as chocolate (70 per cent cocoa). She delivers some of her lines so woodenly that I wonder if a deliberate somnambulistic state is being evoked. Are we somehow enticed into her dream?

The Driver has no name other than ‘The Driver’. He is as quick on the draw as Leone’s Man With No Name. Is this a spaghetti Western rewritten for the modern urban industrial landscape of wide open streets and factories?

The Driver speaks just 350 words, apparently. The Detective says a lot more. The Driver is silently hip, The Detective, mouthy and corrupt. Does this film argue the case for Zen-like wisdom over verbal excess?

The film both idolises mechanised machismo and revels in its destruction during the wrecking of the Merc in the underground car park.

Is The Driver also a machine? Is he an automaton...the movie idol reduced to no more than a name, a face without expression, a voice without emotion?

This is a film without heroes, without heart or soul.

Is this film as a mechanical process?

The Driver earns big money but instead of leading the high life inhabits seedy rooms with only country music on a transistor radio for entertainment. Perhaps the songs of love and loss say what he is incapable of expressing.

space patrol

Apocalypse Pooh (Todd Graham, 1987)