R.I.P. Del Shannon

I watched the cult Japanese horror movie 'Audition', or 'Odishon' as it it's called in the original Japanese version, a while back now but thought it deserved mention due to its being one out of the two or three films that have ever managed to freak me out. It's just the torture scene. Anyway, this post is dedicated to Del Shannon (1934-1990), one of my favourite Rock and Roll artists along with the King. I'd been aware of his super hit 'Runaway' but not until relatively recently was I enlightened to the full extent of his awesome legacy via extensive hours spent scouring the Pirate Bay...Who was it that said, when Del sang, he had 'a teardrop in his throat?' I don't quite recall, but they were spot on...In the February of 1990 Del Shannon shot himself in the head with a rifle after a long and often difficult career. I first became intrigued by his looks and those pretty eyes in old photographs of him, then his melancholic lyrics, coy in the fashion of that typically 50s kind of romance. I'm not sure his memory is honoured often enough by DJs and general airwaves today, so I hope this post goes some way in spreading the gospel of Del so often overlooked by casual early rock admirers...

Cowboy Bebop

I just watched the film for about the tenth time and it made me mourn afresh how I'm not in posession of the series' boxset. I borrowed it from a friend for a year or something and in that space of time, watched and rewatched it countless times. Every time I get thinking in the slightest about that series, I realize how deeply it's affected me. It might sound stupid, it's only an anime series, but it is one of the most iconic animations ever made. No smoke without fire, in that so many people can't be wrong about the brilliance of that series. I forget how much of my general thinking today I owe to Cowboy Bebop, and I'm not just talking about all its philosophy, I mean the whole thing - the imagery, the values. Very much the values. When I think of a 'cool' guy, I don't realize that it's basically Spike Spiegel. When I think of a guy that's 'the man', it's basically Jet. When I consider my trademark female fictional character, it's basically Faye Valentine. All my short stories are overpopulated by various parodies of Faye. When I daydream, it's all in Bebop terms. Somehow, that show managed to embody all the ideas and fantasies that had been developing in my head my whole life up until that point. Even as a child, the mental landscape in which all my thoughts ran riot was so noir...romantic, dramatic, formed of cynical one-liners and sharp silhouettes. Of course, only now do I see quite how noir it was...

Now Listening To:

The Word Alive - Deceiver. This is a great album and great background listening, some parts sound a bit christmassy if you ask me. However I do think they do screamo a lot better than melody. That accent can't help but be a bit of a kill. *COUGH*if they were Londoners it'd be amazing*COUGH* Must hear: Dream Catcher.

Deftones - Diamond Eyes. I'm a little late, I know, but when I did finally sit down and listen to these guys' latest effort, I was blown away and fell in love with it instantly. Dark, glacial beauty with tempestuous guitars. In other words, classic Deftones. These guys are now probably the main reason I'm looking forward to Reading.

Royal Republic - We Are The Royal. This album is hilarious, I quote: "Now we're playing on the stereo, it's your favourite song.It's the best shit you've ever heard. And it's on." Lyrical genius that. Why aren't these at Reading, they're perfect for it. At first they just annoyed the hell out of me, but listening to the whole album I see that this ridiculously high-energy ADHD sound not only works but is perfect Summertime mosh fodder.  Mouth watering to think of the chaos 'Tommy Gun' would (well, should) cause. Must hear: 'Full Steam Spacemachine'.

ComeBACK ish

Hey readers, obviously I've been busy enough to have neglected my blog for a long, long time but I am promising a come back shortly. Perhaps not too shortly, as many of those responsibilitites which have prevented me from updating this blog remain unattended to...In the mean time, I invite you to consider the fascinating way in which I've spent this evening...in order to not be too cryptic, the scene of these photos is the desk in my study. Yes, that fascinating.

 

Today I finally finished reading Sylvia Plath's Letters Home, Correspondence 1950-1963. It wasn't always fascinating reading but seemed very important for me to read, die-hard fan of 'Sivvy' (as she was nicknamed) as I am. I need to get my hands on her journals now...Whenever I hear of a celebrity's journals being published post-mortem, it sends a brief shiver down my spine to think that if I was ever lucky/unlucky (delete as appropriate) enough to become a house-hold name, then die young, my journals would be left at the disposal of my closest kin. My suitcases full of dusty journals. Need to know: I am on the organ donor register, and whether I'm burnt or buried I'd like my journals to go in the same way on the same day. This is all very charming to think of, but I will swiftly move on anyway.

It was definitely satisfying to finally get an uninhibited insight into Plath's life, but far from what one gets from a detailed biography, one can really draw their own conclusions from literature like this...letters and journals...And it was interesting and often sad to read and form these conclusions - that Plath's letters to her mother were probably often very over-optimistic and didn't speak of a lot of the problems she was going through. Sylvia never confided in her mother about the turbulence in her marriage right up until the relationship was over, in the letters anyway. So it wasn't really up until that point that the book started to show a more real picture of Plath's life, and it was only then, very near the end of the book, that I fully started to...get something from it. To 'feel it', unpleasant as it was. Those very few letters that do actually speak of that dark time in Sylvia's life after Ted left her are so painful to read, her desperation is obvious in every word. And the way she wrote did undergo a noticeable change after Ted left her. Loathe as I am to say it, she genuinely seemed like a  broken woman after it. The poetry library can breathe a sigh of relief, they're finally getting this book back.

One of my biggest pet hates is when the light's on for no reason during the day. I think my annoyance is mostly on behalf of the environment, but aside from that it is just such an ugly effect. Why spoil the beauty of natural daylight with this garish orange electricity? It is rich for me to be talking about 'the beauty of natural daylight' since I tend to avoid it like the plague. Within reason. Kind of. But still. Apologies for how barren of poetry this blog has been lately, exams are keeping me busy...

Further Plathian Wisdom

"We are not dependant on the social arty world, but scorn it, for those who are drinking and calling themselves 'writers' at parties should be home writing and writing. Every day one has to earn the name of 'writer' over again, with much wrestling." - Sylvia Plath

I think I need to take note.

"Being utterly in love...frees our writing from being a merely egoistic mirror, but rather a powerful canvas on which other people live and move" - Sylvia Plath

The Man

Tango cans fall among the buds, among your feet,
We'd bend down to pick it up if you'd been from around here,
Sun shines even on this off day, deciding on or not to now
Flip you off, if to checkmate your eating eyes, and there's
One more life. Deciding, never could run away up, away,

Somehow, always more about the strength you saw
In summer, in the long and short of catcalls from the
Mount. It's all about the way youth blooms from the ether
In this weather. Shame the fall is too short, pedals
Holding notes from the high, quiet breaking into lunch break

Making. Take some instinct, take some will along. Plans
For weeks, lists, nucleosynthesis of the sun - but here air
Is dry and like anyone else the forest
Lies. Hot bake children sat in styro-glass shift dresses,
Sand podiums, all cracked in that cot, prism-like

As the little white house in the outskirts.
And that was while I'd found you out, haltingly dressed,
And strewn over acres of unowned land, shortly,
A fist nose-breaking, litter-raking, the man.