If You're So Rich, How Come You Ain't Hip?

After watching ‘Who Wants To Be A Millionaire’ on BBC2 last night I’ve decided to become a Cultural Guru. The programme featured ‘wealth gurus’ such as Robert Kiyosaki, author of ‘Rich Dad, Poor Dad’, which has sold millions, thus continuing Kiyosaki’s seemingly unstoppable ability to make money.

I’m writing a book that’ll be called ‘If You’re So Rich, How Come You Ain’t Hip?’ It will outline my programme which guarantees cultural wealth. On the TV programme wannabe millionaires are seen high-fiving, hugging and chanting mantras. I won’t be encouraging those who attend my seminars to hug or give high fives, but chanting will be part of the necessary steps. Chants such as ‘I am not rich but I do appreciate the genius of Charlie Parker therefore I am richer than morons with supercars who don’t’ and ‘I have little money but I will never sell that which enriches me such as my Jacques Demy box set, unless I need to eat, in which case I might’. It’s too early to have worked those out properly yet. But there will be loads which have to be said every morning.

Becoming culturally wealthy takes time, just as becoming a millionaire does, but at least you won’t have to learn about property investment. There are many cultural ‘advisors’ on the Net in the form of bloggers and journalists writing introductions to Suicidal Drone music and the like, but my programme will offer so much more.

My seminars will cost £600 to attend. If you think that’s a lot, tough. If you can easily afford it, you’re probably a rich bastard who needs to attend because your vocational ambition has nullified all opportunities to engage with life-enhancing culture. I’m not saying all the rich are devoid of taste, but look at the examples around the world. After my programme, you’ll sell that ugly house, all those shitty supercars, and probably even your wife who, let’s face it, is a bimbo that wouldn’t know Miles from Steve Davis. If you’re a married woman, you’ll get rid of him for the same reasons.

Follow me.

It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of cultural bliss, but there is hope. Give me your money and I will spend it wisely on such things as signed editions of William Burroughs books and El Saturn LPs on vinyl.

This way to cultural enlightenment.

Cultural wealth ensures a degree of contentment you never thought possible. It enriches your mind, the most valuable possession you own. Culture need not cost the earth if you follow my programme, which will contain the addresses of the very best charity shops and file-sharing sites. Chapters will include ‘Aesthetic Appreciation And How To Develop It’, ‘Don’t Join The 99% - Why They Are Mostly Wrong In What They Listen To, Watch & Read’, ‘How To Be Hip, Not A Hipster’, and ‘Be An Outsider, Because Like Nature’s Bountiful Treasures All The Best Things Grow Outside’ – something like that. I haven’t fully developed these yet, of course.

You Can Create and Consume.

Creation and consumption are not mutually exclusive. You will need to consume culture to understand what others have done so that you may develop your own voice. I will be giving specific instructions on how to start your new life as a creator. Believe me, to paint, film or write is life-enhancing, regardless of whether you sell anything. Even blogging is better than doing nothing. Look at me. I started this blog two years ago and readership regularly gets into double figures.

You cannot buy good taste.

It’s said that all artistic appreciation is subjective. This is bollocks. There are standards, and you will learn them. They are not ‘rules’, but simply guidelines towards learning what is Right and Wrong. Once you have studied the guidelines, you will be on your way to understanding what I mean. It’s not that I don’t know what I mean and cannot explain, but that I have no intention of telling you right now otherwise you won’t buy my book or attend my seminars.

Finally, the superiority you will feel once culturally enlightened will be a reward that renders financial wealth insignificant. Trust me. I know. You will pass huge houses and instead of envying the owners pity them for their taste and cultural paucity. You will see the rich dining on fine foods in fancy restaurants and be thankful that you feast on that which nourishes your soul. It’s true.

Trust me. I am your cultural guru.

The Process - Brion Gysin (Panther 1973)

Stay Asleep (Regression Volume 2) - Nate Young

Ol' wolf eyes is back. Couldn't resist that. Barry White and Nate Young...what do they have in common? Nothing other than Young claims to have seen people having sex at a Wolf Eyes gig and many have done the same, I would think, if only in their heads, at a Barry White gig. Women, of course, because to my knowledge BW is not a Love God to men, which is not to say that many a man has not formed the beast with two backs whilst playing (not listening to) a Barry White album - dirty rotters. I've never liked the idea of playing music whilst shagging, let alone having Wolf Eyes melt your brain with their sonic mess at the same time. Here, though, Nate offers an alternative to the nihilistic Noise of Wolf Eyes, just as he did on the first volume. That did, however, contain traces of his work with the band, whereas this is more restrained, refined. As he said in a recent interview: 'I am focusing on technique and structure more than visceral aesthetics.' This is all studied technique and simple structuring that works brilliantly. Yes, less is more, and the finest of touches in the mix make for a minimalist study in stereo dread. First listen I thought nothing much happens but the mood is fantastic. Several plays later, I realise that nothing much happening is a great alternative to the full-on scream of aural terror. 'Stay Asleep' is the sound of footsteps getting closer...things that murmur in the night...unidentifiable noises...wonderful.

Interview

This is my upload of a track from the first 'Regression' album.

Tragic Facebook Friendship Scenario

‘Scuse me whilst I chat to my imaginary friend – you.

I’m a sad bastard an' no mistake, as I said to one of my Facebook ‘friends’ a few hours ago. My notifications have hit an all-time low. I get no messages. And whatever I post gets little attention. Christ! – am I that unpopular? Probably. I’ve got just over 100 ‘friends’ and that sounds like a lot to me, but then, I’m imagining it’s 1991 and friends are people I meet in bars and clubs. I don’t even have many of those.

I have friends on FB who have hundreds of friends. What does that mean? That they’re constantly engaging with hundreds of people every day? No, of course not. It means that FB is a livelier experience for them, I suppose.

I have FB friends who engage with me more than some that I’ve actually met. This can only mean one thing: that having met me they like (or ‘like’) me less. I am a sad bastard. I must be unlikable. Tragic, isn’t it?

I have FB friends who don’t use FB much, because they have lives, presumably; the kind that entail going out, and being with the family. I should get out more. It’s a wide world out there, waiting to be explored. So I hear. I went out yesterday, to buy a ‘paper.

I grow old, I grow old...I shall wear my trousers rolled...and step straight into slippers without properly ensuring that my heel is covered, shuffling ‘round the bunker in a dressing gown like an old fart, mumbling to myself, quoting Burroughs (and T.S. Eliot, if you like). And when not wearing slippers, looking at them with their flattened back, which symbolises a form of laziness and reminds me that my father did the same. So I’m turning into him. We all know that we turn into a variation of our parents eventually. He did not read Burroughs, though. Or listen to obscure library music. And so on...

There’s no way ‘round it, you lose friends as you age. Many have moved out of the city. Many have bred (don’t they know there’s a population crisis?). Some simply disappeared, no longer contactable by phone, gone before the rise of the social network. I’d look them up on FB but they’re all called Jones...and Smith, so you can imagine the problem.

It’s not news but I’ll say it anyway, FB does as much to damage the notion of friendship as it does enforce it by fostering an almighty illusion. I’m sure you’re aware of this. FB ‘friends’ represent something, but also nothing more than the willingness of others to have FB ‘friends’. They represent a social mirage which, upon closer inspection, does indeed seem to disappear. It’s no good entering the social network carrying the old baggage of beliefs that friendship is a valid connection between two people. My experience tells me otherwise. But as I said, I’m a sad bastard and that’s my problem.

Now, unlike my status in the world of social networking, the bread I’m making is on the rise. So I’ll say farewell.

TTFN

Interplanetary Music - 20 Essential Albums Part 1

OK space mates, strap yourself in for a trip along the interstellar highways and byways of cosmic sound. These are some of my favourite albums devoted to the Far Out, futuristic and intergalactic. No Funk or Techno here because I wanted to limit the field despite believing Herbie Hancock's forays into Space Jazz to be utterly fantastic. No Hip-Hop or contemporary Sci-Fi-inspired sounds either. There are many albums from the 50s on which the theremin was the sole indication, sonically, of Other Worlds, but fantastic sleeves aside, the music rarely exceeded anything but Easy Listening. In some cases (Les Baxter), that was great, but I've concentrated on the works that really utilised new musical technology, on the whole. Since there's no Number One in terms of The Best, I've worked chronologically. I'll be posting 5 at a time. We have lift off...

1. The Day The Earth Stood Still - Bernard Herrmann (1951)

Expert application of the theremin as extraterrestrial voice with orchestration ranging from subtle to strident representations of catastrophe and menace. Artistry in Space Sound, as opposed to merely supplying music for movies. If Klaatu came back today, I'm sure no-one would listen, although if Obama has seen the film, he might. I'm sure he has seen the film. Come back Klaatu!

2. Forbidden Planet - Louis & Bebe Barron (1956)

Electro-music geeks can salivate all day over the Barrons' use of individual cybernetics circuits. It was the first totally electronic soundtrack. It's not just one of the best because it was the first, but because the conversion of images into sounds that truly were part of a brave new world of...er...sound. The film supposedly referred to Shakespeare's 'The Tempest', but never having read one of Will's plays, I wouldn't know. 

3. Song Of The Second Moon - Tom Dissevelt & Kid Baltan (1957)

Originally released as 'Electronic Music' but reissued under this title in '68 when, presumably, the company felt that the world was ready for it, being more attuned to Space Vibrations. The changed U.S. titles such as 'Moon Maid' and 'Sonik Re-Entry' are, let's face it, more space race sexy than 'Drifting' and 'Whirling'. 'The Visitor From Inner Space' is much better than 'Vibration' too. Way ahead of the game (the game being electronic Pop complexities in frequently rhythmic modes), avant-garde melodic maestros, I salute you. 

4. Fantastica - Russ Garcia (1959)

This combines the Easiness of 50s-era domesticated Space Dreams with forward-looking electronics courtesy of Liberty Records co-founder Theodore Keep. His contribution to 'The Monsters Of Jupiter', 'Water Creatures Of Astra' and 'Red Sands Of Mars' help make this a stand-out album of the time. It's Les Baxter-style Space Exotica but none the worse for that.

5. Man In Space With Sounds - Attileo Minneo (1959)

I covered this album here so I won't say more about this classic example of Futuristic Optimism for a golden age that never came. Minneo's music is a highly advanced blend of eerie ambience and radical arrangements.

Street Theatre Of The Absurd

At any street corner the feeling of absurdity can strike any man in the face - Albert Camus

Space Escapade - Les Baxter

Look at the astronaut – ‘Here’s to outer space – cheers!’. That’s moon juice they’re drinking, by the way. To be precise, a cocktail of liquids extracted from beneath the moon’s surface.

 When this album was made in 1958, the pesky Reds had already launched Sputnik the year before. The Space Race was on, but from the comfort of their armchairs, American citizens could spend ‘Saturday Night On Saturn’ courtesy of Les Baxter.

   Ah yes, dreams of outer space...swirling stars and mysterious planets to be explored...space maidens...with coils of wire sticking out of their heads...those are receivers which allow them to tune in to the cosmic vibrations of Space, by the way.

   You see, Space may be filled with evil aliens bent on ruling Earth by zapping the White House or snatching bodies, but that’s no reason not to crack open the moon juice and celebrate the brave new world of Space exploration, especially when your accompanied by foxy girls with pink and yellow skin wearing calf-length boots.

   This Space Escapade begins buoyantly with ‘Shooting Star, which you may wish upon as you fantasise about one day going there on a Space Cruiser. It’s all zippy strings and bouncy percussion – yes, Space is an Exotic realm, naturally. The ‘Moonscape’ is one suited to lush strings, being a beautiful, calming environment, not hostile at all. Hold on, here comes ‘Mr Robot’, a chirpy, somewhat comical fellow, who walks in a jaunty manner. He’s a lot of fun, and he’ll do household chores too.

   Space travel may not have quite worked out this way. But in 1958 the fantasy was still very much alive. If we close our eyes and listen to Les, we too may dream of space maidens and moon juice...

Thus Today Survival Is Reduced To Consumption - Raoul Vaneigem Comic Strip

The Revolution Of Everyday Life (Full Text)

The Doomsday Fun Book (The Wadebridge Press,1977) - Satire From The Ecologist

 

Avant-Garde Jazz & Avant-Garde Cars - Playboys Nov '67 & Aug '68

You may not expect to find an article praising the likes of Albert Ayler and Sun Ra in Playboy, but in November 1967 they offered their sophisticated readership an overview of 'far-out jazz'. 

 

August 1968...I want an 'Astro-Vette'...

 

 

Never Any End To Paris - Enrique Vila-Matas (New Directions 2011)

The broad passageway that joins fiction and reality is cool and well-ventilated, and the air within blows about with the same natural ease with which I mix biography and invention. 

                                                            - Enrique Vila-Matas

I can pay no greater tribute to an author than to announce that I read his book. This may sound odd to you, an avid reader, perhaps, who regularly begins to read a novel and continues until the end.

   As I said to a woman  over dinner last night: ‘I finish, perhaps, one in ten novels that I start’. Her blank expression in response to this admission did not surprise me. People often respond that way when I admit my problem with fiction. After all, it is a kind of problem, is it not? I do find fiction problematic on a purely personal, rather than theoretical or analytical basis. ‘I’m very fussy,’ I said to the woman. I struggled to condense my attitude to literature so as not to ruin our enjoyment of the salmon. She told me she belonged to a book club, to which I responded by saying I could never read anything foisted upon me by a stranger. The chances of it being an enjoyable exercise were remote. The odds, I might say, would be longer than ten-to-one, since that derives from books of my own choosing. One-hundred-to-one would be an optimistic estimate.

   This is the second Vila-Matas novel I’ve finished, which makes him my favourite contemporary author. You will have noticed, if you’ve spent any time perusing this blog, that William Burroughs is a favourite of mine. I was once asked if I actually was him when buying Ted Morgan’s biography in an Oxfam shop. As if the idea that I would be buying my own biography is not odd enough, that I should actually be William Burroughs boggles my mind. All this based on an old photo of Bill on the front cover. I wasn’t even wearing a trilby at the time.

   Vila-Matas as the first person narrator of this novel claims to bear a resemblance to one of his heroes, Ernest Hemingway. So convinced is he of this that he goes to Key West in Florida to enter a lookalike competition, from which he is thrown out for bearing no resemblance at all. This is a running joke throughout the novel.

   I suppose this is a ‘novel’, although the style in which Vila-Matas tells the ‘story’ is such that it convincingly suggests autobiography. To confound us further, he also presents it as a lecture, but unlike authors keen to dazzle the reader with meta-textuality (I may have made that term up) Vila-Matas is admirably readable.

   Vila-Matas did actually stay in Paris with the writer and filmmaker Marguerite Duras as his landlady, just as he describes in the book, which tells of his years as a writer struggling to complete his first novel. One of my favourite passages relates to the use of dialogue in fiction. He questions its validity, despite Hemingway’s mastery of the art, and whilst in a cafe looks around and sees that people are actually talking to each other.  ‘However, this second certainty didn’t change things much. All these people engaged in dialogue surely voted for the right-wing politician Giscard d’Estaing and, what’s more, there was obviously nothing poetic about them, they were overwhelmingly vulgar, and what they were saying probably was as well.’ He returns to his garret and cuts out all but three essential pieces of dialogue.

   This book is filled with ironies, and is in part about irony itself. But when he speaks of what it is to be a struggling author he can also be genuinely poetic, if tinged always with some ironic distance. Here is another great passage: ‘If I were really a writer, I’d try like Rimbaud to create all the celebrations, all the triumphs, all the dramas. I would try to invent new flowers, new stars, new flesh, new languages.

   If I were really a writer, I would be absolutely modern. And when dawn came, armed with a burning patience, I would enter splendid cities. If I were really a writer, my days would go by in a very different way. If I were really a writer...’

   If I were you, and you have not read Vila-Matas, I would start right away.

More Vila-Matas on the blog here.

  

Volts' Concerto In DC Minor - A Robot Joins The Monkees

 

 

 

The Cautious Bachelor - Sarel Eimerl (1960)

She couldn't grow a beard?