Heathen

I don’t know what kind of shape this blog would be in if I actually had any kind of a life at all. My pardons for very slack-assed posting yesterday and today – I had, like, stuff to do with people and stuff. I’ll put some of the blame on having some very long workdays lately back to back with social engagements. Otherwise I promise I’d have insightful things to say about songs I love.

Hearts For Sale

The Rolling Stones, Steel Wheels, 1989. This is them churning it out in their sleep, and damn good too. Generic for them, but way above the rest of the world. Happy 50th boys!

Heartlines

This is a very stripped-down version of Heartlines - Florence Welch usually aims for maximum epic. The acoustics aren’t great either. There’s audible talking on all sides. But the shortcomings of an amateur video job can’t dull the impact of Florence + the Machine. There’s a lot to be said for her; her style, her red hair, her dark sensibility. Lots of things to love, but it’s all about one thing: that voice. A gift like that is rare enough, and to do something interesting with it is even rarer. Florence Welch is one of those once in a blue moon characters who come along complete with amazing talent, style, image, originality – someone with a  vision. It’s always very sad to hear someone who is technically a good singer who allows themselves to be molded into a generic pop star shape and has no concept of themselves as an artist. Then there’s Flo, who sings about reading fortunes in animal entrails, among many other morbid and occultish things. ‘Witchy woman’ is a pretty flaccid label, regularly applied to hippies of all shapes and Stevie Nicks, and hopefully Flo won’t fall headfirst into that stereotype. But there’s something witchy about her alright; a little witchy, a little Romantic, a little Bohemian, and just by virtue of denying contemporary reference points, contrarily modern.

Heartbreaker

My only complaint about this song – terrible title. Not Heartbreaker, the actual one. Who had the brilliant idea they’d name the thing after the chorus? “Yeah, let’s call it Doo Doo, great you guys!” It’s the part of my brain that never passed 12 that still thinks, hehehe, doo doo, heheheh. But, you know, other than that, perfect song. Say what you will, critics, but the Stones’ Mick Taylor era was pretty damn great, I think. From all accounts, Taylor had the charming personality of a pickled herring, but when he played, he played like a god. With Taylor’s virtuosity, and guys like Billy Preston and Bobby Keys along for the ride, the Stones were playing tight and funky. Each album, era and lineup should be judged on its own merits, not compared and contrasted, irresistible fun though that is.  Yeah, but you know what, I’m tired of defending my position all the time. Goats Head Soup is a great album, fucking forget Lester Bangs or whomever, just listen to the thing.

Heartbreak Hotel

Remember when Elvis was shocking? He’s like the face of Americana now and to our jaded eyes there’s nothing remotely provocative about him. He’s as safe and familiar as a bowl of cornflakes. But in the fifties he outraged and terrified the nation with his sexy grin and lascivious leg wiggles. Back than any man who didn’t have starched pants and the regulation stick up his ass was a threat to society. The fifties were all about propriety and conformity and pretty pink colors. What was wrong with people back then, I don’t know. Maybe after the many traumatic evens of the thirties and forties everybody just wanted to feel safe. After all, the whole world had been turned upside down. You can’t really blame people for wanting to put a bland and pleasant face on life. Then this new thing called rock’n'roll came along. And scared the shit out of the older crowd. When Elvis asked his girl if the chairs in her parlor felt empty, everyone knew he wasn’t talking about the chairs in her parlor. It was rare enough to see a man displaying physical grace – everyone had a suit on starched so stiff they could barely walk. Overt physicality was permissible for dancers like Gene Kelly, but Kelly’s dancing was never sexualized. Acting sexy was ok for a few women, the Marilyn and Jayne types, but no man before Elvis acted sexy. Elvis moved sexy, the way a woman would, but of course in a very masculine way as well. That was unheard of. No wonder Ed Sullivan filmed him from the waist up. It wasn’t just the women who were sexually repressed – it takes two to tango, as they say. How much blame you can put on Elvis Presley for the sexual revolution that quickly followed his arrival I’m not sure, but he surely did help it along. Maybe we’ve come to associate Elvis and Marilyn Monroe with each other because at a very repressed time, they did more than anybody to show men and women how to be physical creatures.

The Heart’s Filthy Lesson

Does art justify depravity? So asks David Bowie, Outside. Or maybe he doesn’t. As thoroughly as I’ve listened to it, it remains one of Bowie’s most obtuse works. Sharply divisive, too. It left a lot of fans cold and mystified, and a small group entranced. Maybe the answer is that art does justify crime and redeems sinners. Or maybe it does the opposite. Maybe it corrupts. Maybe it’s a weapon for good or evil. Maybe it’s a drug. Maybe creation and destruction are the same thing. Maybe David Bowie needs to quit listening to Nine Inch Nails so much. I’m not sure I even understand the concept, but I’m certain it’s something profound.

Heart With No Companion

So the great Leonard Cohen is on tour again. He must have enjoyed it so much last time. H certainly made a lot of money and the adulation must have felt good too. He’s become something of a mythical figure in his old age. Can you imagine any poet ever again becoming so revered? Is poetry even a thing anymore? Some people still write good song lyrics, but who among them would put down ‘poet’ as his profession? So the old wordsmith is on the road again. I don’t know if I can afford it this time around, although I couldn’t afford it last time either and that didn’t stop me. It almost feels greedy to want a second chance. I was lucky to see him once, I should be still grateful.

I greet you from the other side
Of sorrow and despair
With a love so vast and shattered
It will reach you everywhere
And I sing this for the captain
Whose ship has not been built
For the mother in confusion
Her cradle still unfilled

For the heart with no companion
For the soul without a king
For the prima ballerina
Who cannot dance to anything

Through the days of shame that are coming
Through the nights of wild distress
Tho’ your promise count for nothing
You must keep it nonetheless

You must keep it for the captain
Whose ship has not been built
For the mother in confusion
Her cradle still unfilled

For the heart with no companion …

I greet you from the other side …

Nine

The Italians didn’t invent the virgin/whore dichotomy but they believe in it more literal-mindedly than anyone else. Their patriarchal and Catholic-guilt-ridden culture is a strange subject for Hollywood. I’ll admit I’ve never seen Fellini’s 8½, but it’s the source of all this foolery, every cliche – the saintly mother, the long-suffering wife, the vulgar mistress, the friendly neighborhood whore, the token crass American, the nebulous muse. At least Fellini had the excuse of drawing from his own life. Who thought that turning this material into a lavish musical was a good idea, I don’t know, but everything about the film Nine is misguided, from Daniel Day-Lewis’s Chef Boyardee accent to the sight of that sexless old hatchet Judi Dench dolled up Folies Bergere style. First problem, the songs aren’t very good. Second, insurmountable problem, none of the leading ladies can sing. The only one who doesn’t make an embarrassment of herself is Stacy “Fergie” Ferguson, who just happens to be a professional pop singer. The third terrible problem is terrible, terrible miscasting. Nicole Kidman wears more padding than Eddie Murphy in a futile attempt to evoke Anita Ekberg. Kidman doesn’t have the figure for it – she’s tall, lean and flat-chested, all straight lines and angles. Nor does she have the personality of a sex-kitten. She’s at her best playing refined, neurotic intellectuals. I like her very much, but she’s simply not the coochy-coo type. Marion Cotillard’s spurned wife is all doe-eyed and weepy. Kate Hudson is a useless piece of flotsam dredged up to add a bit of extra celebrity wattage to the marquee. Sophia Loren, as close to a living goddess as anyone could get, is given nothing to do except stand there, looking saintly and wise. The only good thing about the picture is Penelope Cruz. Although her yowling and jiggling begs for one of those cartoon hooks to whisk her offstage, at least she’s having fun. She’s only actress perfectly cast – playing passionate, sensual and needy is right up her alley, and she musters enough enthusiasm to act as though she were in a real movie. Is that worth the price of admission? No. Go rent Elegy or Volver.

Heart On My Sleeve

What is there left to say about Bryan Ferry that I haven’t said before? That his debonair romanticism makes my stony heart melt? That he’s got impeccable taste in everything from neckties to younger women to other people’s songs? Yeah, I’ve said all that before. Here’s another perfect song from another perfect album. But sometimes the interesting thing isn’t what you came for. This is a pretty typical Bryan Ferry song, and Let’s Stick Together is a pretty typical Bryan Ferry album. Like a lot of Ferry’s albums, it’s a lively mix of originals and well chosen covers. Among the covers are gems from The Beatles, Jimmy Reed and The Everly Brothers. And this little track by somebody called Gallagher and Lyle. Who the heck they were I don’t know, and this song doesn’t even have a Wikipedia page. But there they are on YouTube, playing TotP like they’re real pop stars, dated June 1976, only a few months before Ferry released his album. From which I surmise that it was either a huge, huge hit in the summer of ’76 and Ferry just had to get his paws on it. Or, possibly, it’s older than that and Ferry heard it and liked and decided to do a cover and Gallagher & Lyle found out and scrambled to get some free publicity from having a genuine famous person take an interest in one of their songs. Not that it matters either way – people still listen to Bryan Ferry, but who remembers Gallagher & Lyle? Now, watch Gallagher & Lyle’s video and see if you don’t get a snicker two. It would be laughably dated, except that it’s not. That could be yesterday’s hipster darlings playing Late Night with Jimmy Fallon (or whomever the fuck hosts Late Night nowadays). It’s all there; the sappy earnestness, the meta-pretension of their every-schmuck persona, the doofy grins, the soft strumming, the dumb little hats and beards. They could be the very hipsters you see promenading about the farmers’ market on a Sunday morning. It’s like time stands still.  Just shows you, if your lame sensitive-dude act goes out of fashion, just wait forty years and it’ll be good as new.

Heart of the Country

Speaking of happy little Paul McCartneys… Has anything ever been as cute as Paul helping Linda off with her Wellies in this video? A basket of kittens has got nothing on those two. It’s a little-known fact that on the day Paul and Linda wed the purity of their love caused a kitten to spontaneously materialize right there in the courthouse. It’s true, there are pictures. Ok, but seriously, if Paul McCartney has a dark side, I’ve yet to see any sign of it. It’s unbelievable how sane, humble, well-adjusted and nice the man is and has always been. It must be an example of reaping what you sow or something, because aside from a few days in a Japanese prison and that thing with the one-legged gold-digger, McCartney has had a remarkably smooth, scandal-free ride through life. He puts out so much positive energy that nothing dark could possibly ever happen. You could say that, well, his wife died, that was pretty tragic, but I don’t think it was. Of course it’s very sad that Linda died so young, but really, isn’t that the ideal ending? To have an unblemished, happy, wonderful life together until one of you dies? Don’t we all wish we could be in love until we die? To die unreasonably young is always unfair, but to die after living a life of Paul McCartney love songs can’t be that bad. I’d say Paul is one of the luckiest guys alive to have had a love like Linda, and he’d probably tell you the same thing. So yeah, Paul is a pretty enviable person. What kind of rock star sings songs about wanting to own sheep and then goes out and buys him some sheep? I could be a cynic and say all that sappy love stuff and songs about puppy dogs is drivel and blah blah, but you know what, he’s Paul McCartney and his songs about his pets and livestock are still a million times better than most anyone else’s big serious anthems about whatever big serious things you think are more important than sheep. Or just read the things teenage girls are still writing about Paul:

and then on the 18th day of june in the sacred year of 1942, God said, “let there be magic, perfection, and every wish a teenage girl wants and put it into one man” and thus, Paul McCartney was born and God declared the day good

Yep, found that on some teenage chick’s blog just now. Warms yer heart, don’t it?