On Tour
This week (intimating that I post at least weekly) finds your daring correspondent in Inverloch. I was invited down here for one of Ricky Nixon's bunga bunga parties but he cancelled it for reasons I know not. Fortunately I have been gripped (griped?-Ed) by World Cup fever (chlamydia?-Ed). It leaves one quite reeling with thrillderment to realise that there will be 49 matches in this World Cup and it takes 7 matches before there is one even remotely worth watching...and that requires a now delusory (and during the few moments we have left, let's talk right down to earth in a language everyone can easily understand....stretched to the point of impenetrable post-structural comedy) premise that the West Indies are still a decent team. But my mind turns to Hot Rock, and it turns to it much more often than posts to this blog would indicate. Such is the state of rock in the 30s that not only do babies prevent you from rehearsing but they also prevent you from having space to pack a guitar. And while the ukulele is certainly admirably compact it does not lend itself to slabs of totemic riffing. It does on the other hand encourage alternate chord forms.Labels: Berlusconi, Holiday, Neologism
posted by Unrelenting Tedium at 9:09 pm
5 Comments:
Just checking whether the email alert for comments works once more.
And it does!
I find myself enmiseried by the staggering depths to which I don't care about this particular world cup. I was dead keen on the last one but it turns out that I have lost pretty much all of my desire to watch, play or read about cricket.
And I used to love the sport so much: I still list both seeing Warney's Gatting ball on the telly and a win in a semifinal I played in among my top-three favourite sporting moments.
Now what remains is my unhappiness at yet another flame extinguishing of that fire in my aging belly. You feel old when you stop caring about stuff.
I cheer myself up, however (to continue this long, selfish bleat about myself), by playing some cracking tunes. My old love I felt in my teens for Pink Floyd still burns and I yearn for Squid Ink to play a meandering 23-minute extravaganza with keyboards, psychedelic lightshow and giant inflatable animals.
Back on topic, many years ago I read Hector Berlioz's biography. I recall an anecdote about Hector strolling through some French paddock with a pen and no doubt one of those trendy Moleskine notepads scribbling down ideas for some Romantic tone poem or other. A peasant yokel storms up and asks what he's doing. Hector replies that he's composing to which the yokel scoffs that obviously he isn't because he's just writing in a notepad and has no instrument.
And that's turned out to be the case here. Ukulele notwithstanding, we are no composers without our instruments.
Whilst faltering when trying to match your curmudgeonliness, I come nearby regarding the world cup. Sure, I brought it up, but I have been in the same house as a TV with foxtel all week and have not even considered turning it on...in fact I was unaware the world cup was on until yesterday. The grumpiness you deftly express is the very reason I deleted the 100+ post Cricket Tedium blog. I just felt I was being marketed to every time I watched cricket.
I have been listening to the "early singles" Pink Floyd thingy these last couple of days. Syd Barrett, though annoying on occasion (seemingly more so if you actually knew him), was a remarkable song writer. The dude could have shredded a uke out on the Fens...and probably also carried the highly-marketed-and-cleverly-product-placed-in-every-jolly-bookstore molskine book. Hector got rubbished when i included him my list of composers starting with B which meant B was the only letter of composer you ever needed (Beethoven, Bach, Bartok, and the king Brahms), but unlike he others Berlioz was a multimedia entertainer. Certainly outside the Fantastique and a fairly bitchin' Grande Messe, he seems to have been a bit workmanlike compsitionwise. But you also got journalism and criticism. The others were too busy staring at the their own navels.
Ben Britten turning in his grave at the omission...
And who could overlook the contributions of Trevor Bayliss.
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