#Grace reissued

[communistkenobi]

A newborn baby girl will have to go through life with the wrong sex on her birth certificate after a registrar’s error, which her parents have been told they cannot change. Grace Bingham and her partner, Ewan Murray, were excited to register their first child at the Sutton-in-Ashfield Registration Office in Nottinghamshire last week. But, after nights of broken sleep, they failed to notice the registrar had written the wrong sex on the birth certificate until after it had been submitted. “We were horrified but assumed that, as we saw the mistake just a few seconds after it had happened, correcting it would be an easy matter,” said Murray. “But although the registrar apologised for her mistake – and the area manager also apologised – it turns out that birth certificates can’t be changed.”

this article is interesting because it demonstrates that cis people can very easily apply structural thinking to sex assignment - this couple immediately identifies that their daughter, having mistakenly been assigned male at birth by the registrar, will have administrative problems in employment, education, travel, and so on. they pretty adeptly identify the foundational role that sex assignment plays in the administrative and civil functions of a state, and how incorrect sex markers effectively produce a ‘rational’ reason for discrimination within these administrative and civil arenas:

The General Register Office (GRO), which is responsible for administering all civil registration in England and Wales, and the Home Office have both confirmed that Lilah’s birth certificate cannot be reissued, although an amendment can be made in the margin of the original document. But Bingham said this is not enough. “People reading a birth certificate might easily miss a tiny note in the margin – which means that Lilah could be regarded as male when she applies for school, her passport, for jobs – for everything that she needs a full birth certificate for.”

And given that this was published in The Guardian, this article makes zero mention as to why it’s impossible for this couple to receive an updated birth certificate with correct information (something the author notes was possible to do a year ago), but the reason is obviously transphobia. 

Now one might ask why there’s no exception for cis people whose birth certificates were recorded incorrectly at birth, but this reveals the instability of cissexualism. How would you determine who is a cis person with a mistaken birth certificate, versus a trans person who wants to change their mistaken sex assignment record? Sure, you could say well, this is an infant, of course she’s “really” “biologically” female (something the parents argue in the article as grounds for having their child’s birth certificate re-issued), but 1) that certainly can’t be argued for in all cases, 2) 'biological sex' is understood by medical doctors as alterable through hormones and surgery, which trans people are often required to undergo in order to change their records, and 3) binary sex assignment is already imprecise and discretionary, particularly if infants have sex characteristics that don’t conform to binary F/M assignment standards (which is part of how the category of intersex emerges, framing this failure to conform to state census categories as a biological defect - and in fact, many intersex people do not discover they are intersex until the onset of puberty or later, at which point they are even less in luck if they want to change their sex assignment - and if they don’t, if they are cis but have sex characteristics that do not conform to cis standards, they will be discriminated against anyway). 

Even setting aside the issue of transgender and intersex people for a moment, states fuck up all the time in administration! you've probably either experienced this directly or know someone who's had some kind of record fucked up by the government at some point in their life. If you get married they could fuck up changing your last name, fuck up your disability status, record your social insurance number wrong, print the wrong address on your driver’s license, fail to acknowledge you as a dependent when filing taxes, incorrectly mark you as having graduated when you’re still a student, fuck up your immigration paperwork, record your name wrong during immigration, etc etc into infinity, and this is not even getting into errors that occur when different levels of government pass information between one another. This level of administrative rigidity is purely to punish people who fail to perform cissexualism correctly, and in the case of this couple's child, the administrative error of the state is imputed to them as a personal failure that she and her parents will now have to deal with for the rest of their lives. 

I think the ultimate analysis is not that transphobia will become less precise and hit more "wrong" targets as it expands its reach, but that this is the exact same operational logic as all other liberal state measures - if you encounter a systemic issue, it’s your fault for not avoiding it, fuck you, go away. You’re poor because you’re lazy, you’re unhoused because you’re lazy, you’re disabled because you’re lazy, and your daughter is now administratively transsexual because you’re lazy. In this case, we don’t even need to assume the intentions of the state - they outright say it:

The family complained to the GRO but was told the mistake was their responsibility and could not be fully rectified. “The duty to ensure that information recorded in any particular entry is true is the responsibility of the person providing the information and not of the registrar general or the registrar recording the birth,” the GRO said.

[guitarbomb]

Jeff Buckley Guitar Gear - A Deep Dive into Grace

Jeff Buckley was a major influence on many musicians and guitarists. We take a deep dive into the gear he used.

Jeff Buckley’s Grace album is a tour de force in songwriting. It also features some exceptional guitar playing and recorded guitar tones. We take you through that gear and talk about how to grab some of those tones and integrate them into your rig. Jeff Buckley  Jeff Buckley’s album Grace is often seen as the perfect debut album by many because it is so fully formed. With the perfect balance of…

[dewitty1]

Fic Recs Wrap Up March 2024♡(੭ˊ͈ ꒵ˋ͈)੭*･:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*☆

tissue of silver by fearlessdiva

A love story concerning possessed furniture, black silk pyjamas, courtroom drama, premonitions of doom, assassination attempts, Death Eater yoga, absinthe, bare feet and a sensible werewolf. Rec Post

The Piano by shushu_yaoi_lj @orange-peony

He arrives on a boat during a particularly stormy day. Harry knew Astoria Greengrass had sent for a husband, someone to keep her company on the particularly dreary and dark winter days on this remote island. Harry didn’t know who it was she had arranged to be sent here. All he knew was that the weather was horrid today, and the Portkeys had never properly worked in this remote corner of the North Sea. The island was special, its magic working in odd and surprising ways. Rec Post

Turn From Stone by harryromper @harryromper

Something happened in the hours after the final battle, after the evacuation of the living and the dead. As the last of the survivors left the castle, and as the castle itself turned its wounded back on them all. The loss of Hogwarts has been felt by their entire community. And it’s something that needs to be put right. Harry knows there’s nothing he can do to stop Hermione (war hero, historian, author of the reissued “Hogwarts: A History”) once she sets her mind to something. Even an extremely risky last-ditch effort to restore the ancient castle and lay its newest ghosts to rest. What he wasn’t counting on was her insistence that Draco Malfoy be part of the plan. Rec Post

With and Without You by Shewhxmustnxtbenamed @shewhomustnotbenamed

Harry and Draco realize that they’ve been living in the same building for the past five years, hiding from the Wizarding world in Muggle London for a variety of reasons. They grow unexpectedly close and Harry realizes that Draco’s relationship with his boyfriend is abusive, spiraling as he tries and fails to figure out how to help. In Harry’s rejection of the Wizarding world in general, he has fallen out of touch with his friends and his magical abilities, but has to reconnect with both in order to find himself again. Rec Post

Inevitable [Drarry] by violenttulips @violenttulips

After the war, Harry Potter becomes a talented Senior Auror with a penchant for injury in defense of his colleagues. Draco Malfoy leaves the country for five years and becomes an accomplished Specialty Healer. He comes back after he accepts a job at St. Mungo’s Hospital. When they meet again, it’s clear that Draco has changed significantly in the years since they attended Hogwarts together, and Harry finds himself strangely attracted to his former rival. But things never come easy for the Boy-Who-Lived, and that’s not about to change now. Rec Post

Learn To Fly by Ladderofyears @ladderofyears

January 2004: Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are two of the finest Seekers in England, deadly rivals and secret lovers. As far as Draco is concerned, that’s how it’ll stay forever. He is betrothed to beautiful heiress Astoria Greengrass, and they are due to have a big summer wedding. Everything changes during a hotly fought Arrows versus Wimbourne game when Draco falls from his broom. To his huge shock, when Draco awakes in St Mungo’s, he discovers he is pregnant. What will Draco do, now everything in his tidily compartmentalised life has to change? Rec Post

He Comes Like a Thunderstorm by korlaena @korlaena

Draco is doing his best to balance the life he wants to live and the life he’s forced to live. He’s nearing the tail-end of a long, post-war probation when Harry Potter crashes back into his life with all the grace of a charging Erumpent, breaking through his carefully constructed rules and routine. Caught up in a whirlwind of sex and lust, Potter unwittingly shows Draco that his life as an Incubus doesn’t have to be as lonely and unfulfilling as he thought, but how long can it last? Rec Post

Denouement by the_never_was

Pale face in paler hands, he is devoid of color. He is only the moonlight. And he wonders if he’ll find the sun. A story about Draco entering a period of change that will either shatter him or enfold him into Harry Potter’s world. Rec Post

Here are a few more fics I've read recently that y'all might like to check out as well!(ノﾟ∀ﾟ)ノ━☆ﾟ･*:.｡. .｡.:*･.*･｡ﾟ*:・ﾟ✧

Stalking Harry by orphan_account

Harry Potter is the most eligible bachelor in the Wizarding world. Draco Malfoy is a disgraced ex-Death Eater with emotional baggage and a bit of a crush.

Through His Eyes (I Am Set Free)  by  Shewhxmustnxtbenamed @shewhomustnotbenamed

Harry and Draco have a telepathic connection that remains unexplained in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Draco is assigned a mission by Voldemort to locate and capture the Boy Who Lived-- the trouble is that they don't know anything about him. While Draco struggles to gather information on this mysteriously absent hero, he and Harry start communicating again for the first time since they were kids. Harry continues life as normal until he discovers information which compels him to abandon his ordinary Muggle life with the endeavor to rescue and emancipate his only friend-- even if that means bartering with his own life.

A Private Reason for This by Femme (femmequixotic) @femmequixotic

When the wife of a star politician in the Scottish Ministry turns up dead just outside Hogsmeade, Draco Malfoy and his murder investigation team are called in from the Edinburgh Auror force to find her killer. What DCI Malfoy doesn't expect, however, is to have an ex from two decades past end up in his murder room, endangering not only his case, but also his heart.

Consequences of Redemption by bobbirose @ominousflags

When Draco makes an impromptu decision to rescue Harry Potter from Malfoy Manor, the two find themselves completely alone and facing the looming climax of the war against Voldemort. Harry must start from the beginning with Draco--and starting over has more consequences than either of them anticipated.

( •ॢ◡-ॢ)-♡ I hope you enjoy these fics as much as I have! Happy reading, y’all! xoxo Carey  (◍•ᴗ•◍)♡ ✧*💜💙💚💛❤💗💕💖

[mused-amused]

Jeff Buckley: Knowing Not Knowing

From Inside the Music: Conversations with Contemporary Musicians about Spirituality, Creativity, and Consciousness

©️ 1997 Dmitri Ehrlich

Early in the spring of 1997, singer and songwriter Jeff Buckley headed down to Memphis to begin pre-production on what would have been his second full-length album. A few weeks after Buckley arrived, his bandmates flew in from New York to join him. He was in high spirits: the songwriting was going well, and he was reunited with his group. The same night his band arrived Buckley went out for a late-night stroll to a Memphis harbor and waded into the river. He had always admired Led Zeppelin, and was singing "Whole Lotta Love" when a boat passed in front of him. He lost his footing, perhaps dragged into the water by the boat's wake, and was never seen alive again.

He was thirty years old, two years older than his father, the folksinger Tim Buckley, had been when he died of a drug overdose.

I first met Jeff Buckley and saw him perform about two years before he passed away. It was near midnight and Buckley was sitting in the back office of a Tower Records store in lower Manhattan. Buckley had become a scion of the Lower East Side antifolk scene, and was preparing for an in-store performance in support of his album Grace.

But first he needed to do something: he insisted on listening to a crackly old recording of "The Man That Got Away" by Judy Garland, on the pretext that he wanted the store manager, who had given the CD to Buckley, to un derstand how magnificent a gift it was. Buckley needed to demonstrate the album's beauty. He had also picked up gratis CD reissues of vintage Aretha Franklin and Nina Simone records, and two albums by Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, who had a major influence on Buckley's singing. While Buckley could occasionally summon the same kind of ecstatic vocal power that was Khan's trademark, his singing had more in common with Garland's delicate, vulnerable warble.

Buckley was an unglamorous star. That night he was wearing a wretched pair of weathered combat boots-the sort you occasionally see homeless men selling-a frumpy gray cardigan sweater, and jeans that hadn't been washed in a long time. Ditto his hair. In an oddly white-trash bit of accessorizing, Buckley's wallet was attached to his belt by a chain, in the style favored by motorcyde gangs. Three days of beard growth rounded out his anti-coif, but his sex appeal remained intact: a nervous girl approached to ask if, as she suspected, he was a Scorpio. Another pressed a poem she had written for him into his hand. He folded it carefully and put it in his pocket, as though he would cherish it forever. Maybe he did.

Buckley was at an odd moment in his career when he died. Having moved to New York several years before from California, where he was raised by his mother, he crawled his way up through the ranks of the insular lower Manhattan music scene. He had become a mini-star in that highly circumscribed microcosm, perched on the cusp of national and international success. That night at Tower Records the line between Lower East Side local hero and international stardom seemed pretty thin. On one hand, his debut album sold several hundred thousand copies (al-though more in Europe than in America), and there was & throng of photographers and autograph-seekers pressing around him. On the other hand, he wasn't above hauling his own gear onstage, more or less indistinguishable from the half dozen stringy-haired sound men and roadies who were putting the sound system in place.

Buckley had no video in heavy rotation on MTV, largely because he insisted that people judge the music on the way it sounded before supplying them with an accompanying image. For the same reason, he refused to even suggest a single to radio deejays. "What I'd love," Buckley said, "is if a deejay had a lineup of songs, and he'd just use one of my songs as part of a really nice evening. But that's the way I would deejay, not the way they do it. They usually have playlists."

For a guy with folksinging in his blood, Buckley had assembled an arsenal of prog-rock guitar effects you'd expect at an Emerson, Lake, and Palmer show and had set his amp at cat-spaying volume. (In fact, he had been raised on Led Zeppelin and Kiss.) Several dozen more stringy-haired people with assorted rings in their lips and noses (his fans) materialized. As he stepped onto the makeshift stage, a grumpy security guard began clearing some fans from a stairway, but Buckley interjected: "Wait! Those are my friends! Can they stay there? I give them special permission." What started as dispensation for four friends ended up being extended to anybody who wanted to stay.

The set began with a ghostly wail from Buckley, and a mildly Middle Eastern guitar line. He sang with a vibrato that quivered like the tongue of a snake. It was so atmospheric that you hardly realized his bandmates were rocking their tits off. That was the tension: Buckley ululating in sensual falsetto, the band churning out mid-seventies Led Zep knockoffs. He seemed a strangely ethereal cherub in the midst of all that visceral thrash.

After the show, Buckley signed autographs, taking several minutes with the thirty or so fans who lined up for an audience with the tousle-haired singer. Rather than just scribbling an autograph, he wrote a personal note to each person. Everything he did seemed to place poetry before commerce, but I couldn't help wondering if it was all an elaborate ruse, a crafty stance aimed at those disenchanted wich the slickness of pop posturing. Didn't Buckley, after all, want to make a lot of money and sell records?

"If it happens it'd be great," he said later that night, over omelettes and wine at an all-night eatery, "but we just play to express. I want to live my life playing music, so that we can be immersed in it. In order to learn how deep it goes, you have to be in it."

As to why he took so much time with each of the fans who asked for an autograph, Buckley articulated his basic anti-rock-star stance: "The way I experience a performance is that there's an exchange going on. It's not just my ego being fed. It's thoughts and feelings. Raw expression has its own knowledge and wisdom." He trailed off, as though humbled by the mere thought of his audience wanting to hear him play, or asking him for an autograph.

"I’ve been in their position before and all I wanted was to show my appreciation to the performer. So I feel like it's kind of generous of them to even be asking me for an auto-graph.

"It's true that there's also the people who want a piece of you," he conceded. "But it's pretty hard to keep feeling protective all the time, because there's really nothing to protect yourself against. Sometimes people shout at me on the street, and they feel they know me through my music. But that doesn't substitute for a real personal rela-tionship. I don't feel like people know me, I just think we share a love for music in common, and for some reason they key into the way I play. I feel appreciative when people come up to me, and I feel good when we connect. Usually, it serves as a nice comedown after a performance. Any other conduct would bust the groove, because I'm buzzing when I get offstage, and I'm consciously protecting that connection because that's what got me through the performance in the first place. It's an invocation and worship of this certain feeling, this direct line to your heart, and somehow music does that more powerfully than anything else. It's like a total, immediate elixir."

By all appearances Buckley conformed to the stereotype of the poetic artist: largely lacking the practical, thick-skinned psychic barrier that separates most of us from the harsh realities of life. With a rabbit-like nervous disposition and a hypersensitive vulnerability that bordered on tragicomic, he looked like he was about to burst into tears at any moment. His face was contorted and slightly tortured-looking during most of the interview, though I got the impression that it wasn't so much the experience of being interviewed that was torturing him but the pain of grappling with his own thoughts and the world around him.

Relationships were at the heart of Buckley's world.

Although he was marketed as a solo artist, the attitude he had toward his listeners mirrored the relationship he formed with his three-piece backing band. "Playing with a band is all about accepting a bond, accepting everything the way it is. It takes a lot of patience and a lot of taking chances with each other. It takes seeing each other in weak and strong lights, and accepting both, and utilizing the high and low points of your relationship."

It wasn't only interpersonal relationships that Buck-Ley held sacred - he was aware of making his music in relation to all the sounds around him. The environment was Buckley's co-composer: to his ears, no melody or rhythm was separate from the sounds going on in the background.

“It’s not like music begins or ends. All kinds of sounds are working into each other. Sometimes I'll just stop on the street because there's a sequence of sirens going on; it's like a melody I'll never hear again. In performance, things can be meaningful or frivolous, but either way the musical experience is totally spontaneous, and new life comes out of it, meaning if you're open to hearing the way music interacts with ambient sound, performance never feels like a rote experience. It's pretty special sometimes, the way a song affects a room, the way you're in complete rhythm with the song. When you're emotionally overcome, and there's no filter between what you say and what you mean, your language becomes guttural, simple, emotional, and full of pictures and clarity. Were you to transcribe it, it might not make sense, but music is a totally different language."

"People talk all day in a practical way, but real language that penetrates and affects people and carries wisdom is something different. Maybe it's the middle of the afternoon and you see a child's moon up in the sky, and you feel like it's such a simple, pure, wonderful thing to look at. It just hits you in a certain way, and you point it out to a stranger, and he looks at you like you're weird and walks away. To speak that way, to point out a child's moon to a stranger, is original language, it's the way you originate yourself. And the cool thing is, if you catch people in the right moment, it's totally clear. Without knowing why, it's simply clear. That sort of connection is very empirical.

It comes from the part of you that just understands imme-diately. All these types of things are gold, and yet they are dishonored or not paid attention to because that kind of tender communication is so alien in our culture, except in performance. There's a wall up between people all day long, but performance transcends that convention. If pop music were really seen as a fine art or if fine art were popu-lar, I don't know what the hell would happen this wouldn't be the same country, because if the masses of people began to respect and really open to fine art, it would bring about a huge shift in consciousness.

"Music is so many things. It's not just the perfor-mer. It's the audience and the architecture of the song, and each builds off the other. Music is a setting for poi-gnancy, anger, destruction, total disaster, total wrongness, and then—like a little speck of gold in the middle of it-excitement, but excitement in a way that matters. Excitement that is not just aesthetically pleasing but shoots some sort of understanding into you."

Buckley's songs were composed with made-up chords, bright harmonic clusters that seem too obvious not to have been written before, yet they rarely feel formulaic. There's a lot of open strumming, suggesting that the songs were written largely for the sheer physical pleasure of playing them. He and his band modified the arrangements during each performance, playing with an elasticity and openness typical of Buckley's personality. "Hearing a song is like meeting somebody. A song is something that took time to grow and once it's there, it's on its own. Every time you perform it, it's different. It has its own structure, and you have to flow through it, and it has to come through you."

Buckley's entire career reflected his outsider's approach to the music business. When he arrived in New York, rather than recording a demo or finding an agent, he simply began to perform for free. He played at a small café on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, and before long, crowds were lined up out the door. As a result, representatives of record companies sought out Buckley, rather than the other way around. "There is a distinct separation of sensibility between art as commerce and art as a way of life. If you buy into one too heavily it eats up the other. If instead of having songs happen as your life happens, you're getting a song together because you need a certain number of songs on a release to be sold, the juice is sucked out immediately. That approach kills it."

Still, it took a strong belief in one's art to sit in a small café and trust that the world's record companies would come calling. Buckley played down his seemingly effortless approach to career as though it were common-sense. "I just wanted to learn certain things. I wanted to just explore, like a kid with crayons. It took a while for me to get a record contract, but it also took a tremendous amount of time for me to feel comfortable playing, and that's all I was concerned with. And I'm still concerned with that, mainly.”

"I don't think about my responsibility as a musician in terms of any kind of religious significance. I don't have any allegiance to organized religion; I have an allegiance to the gifts that I find for myself in those religions.

They seem to be saying the same thing, they just have different mythologies and expressions, but the dogma of religions and the way they're misused is all too much of a trap. I'd rather be nondenominational, except for music. I prefer to learn everything through music. If you want divinity, the music in every human being and their love for music is pretty much it. It's the big indication of their spirituality and their ability to love and make love, or feel pain or joy, and really manifest it, really be real. But I don't believe in a big guy with a beard on a throne, telling us that we're bad; I certainly don't believe in original sin. I believe in the opposite of that: you have an Eden immediately from the time you are born, but as you are conditioned by your caretakers and your surroundings, you may lose that origi nal thing. Your task is to get back to it, so you can dam responsibility for your own perfection."

Buckley considered the development of awareness to be the main goal of his life. "I think of it as trying to get more aligned with the feeling of purity in music, however it sounds. I think music is prayer. Sometimes people make up prayers and they don't even know it. They just make up a song that has rhyme and meter, and once it's made, it can carry on a life of its own. It can have a lot of juice to it and a lot of meaning: there's no end to the different individual flavors that people can bring to the musical form.

"In order to make the music actual, you have to enable it to be. And that takes facing some things inside you that constrict you, your own impurity and mistakes and blockages. As you open up yourself, the music opens up in different directions that lead you in yet other directions." Asking most pop musicians if they're satisfied with record sales is like asking models about the aging process: they say they don't care, but it's hard to believe. For commercial recording artists, sales are the only objective indicator of whether they're doing things right—that fans are sincerely motivated to walk into record stores by the tens or by the millions, pull out their wallets, and pay for the music. But with his quiet, unaffected voice nearly a whis-per, Buckley steadfastly maintained that he really didn't want to sell a million records and it was strangely believ-able. When he talked about multiplatinum-selling bands who felt "disappointed" by a mere five million copies sold, the disgust he felt for commercialism was palpable. "The only valuable thing about selling records, the only thing that matters, is that people connect and that you keep on growing. You do make choices based on how many people you reach, meaning, now that I have a relationship with stangers worldwide, I have to try not to let it become too much of a factor and just accept it. The limited success we've had in the past is definitely a factor, it's just there. It justis. The whole thing is such a crapshoot, you can't really control what your appeal is gonna be. My music ain't gonna make it into the malls, but it doesn't matter. I don't really care to make it into the malls.

"Whether I sell a lot of records or not isn't up to me. You can sell a lot of records, but that's just a number sold-that's not understood, or loved, or cherished.”

"Take someone like Michael Jackson. Early on he sacrificed himself to his need to be loved by all. His talent and his power were so great that he got what he wanted but he also got a direct, negative result, which is that he's not able to grow into an adult human being. And that's why his music sounds sort of empty and weird.”

"Being the kind of person I am, fame is really over-whelming. First of all, just being faced with the questions that everybody faces: Do I matter? Should I go on? Why am I here? Is this really that important? All that low self-esteem shit. You're constantly trying to make sure that your sense of self-worth doesn't depend on the writings or opinions of other people. You have to wean yourself off acclaim as the object of your work, by learning to depend on your own judgment and knowing what it is that you enjoy. You have to realize what the difference is between being adored and being loved and understood. Big difference.”

“I don’t really have super pointed answers to the big questions. I’m in the middle of a mystery myself. I’m not even that developed at having a real psycho-religious epistemology about what I feel. All I can tell you is that I feel. It's just the same old fight to constantly be aware. It's an ongoing thing. It'll never be a static perfect thing or a static mediocre thing, it just has its rise and fall."

Pics from the book. Amazing that Jeff is in the same section as Allen Ginsberg and Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan. He would have been so honored.

[2000sanimeop]

I made myself an Astos playlist for fun last week and was compelled to make cover art for it, so here's that!

Why Quiet Quitting? What is Stranger of Paradise about if not a dark elf quiet quitting their job for XXXXX years?

✧ Step into my twisted mind (for the tracklist/notes) ✧

✧ 9 to 5 ✧

They just use your mind / And they never give you credit 

Dolly Parton

It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it

Note: One of my favorite Stranger of Paradise pastimes is thinking about Lufenia's TERRIBLE business practices. This was the last track added to the playlist.

✧ Never Recover ✧

The Cardigans

With a hero in the past / You hang on to history

Such a loss will always last / And there's no recovery

Note: The Cardigans have so much more to offer beyond Lovefool and the U.S. Gran Turismo 2 opening. A good flavor of upbeat misery. Side note: Gran Turismo's last track is titled Nil - It's all connected! 🤯

✧ Everyday Is The Worst Day Of My Life ✧

The Lemon Twigs

Everyday is the worst day of my life

Note: I had originally considered using They Don't Know How to Fall In Place (mostly on account of being more of a song and less of a shitpost) but this was too funny not to use. This is the only song on this playlist that isn't 20+ years old. Side note: this band capitalizes all of the prepositions/articles in their song titles, like a middle schooler titling an essay.

The worst day of my life

✧ The Good Life ✧

Weezer

I should have no feeling / 'Cause feeling is pain

As everything I need is denied me

And everything I want is taken away from me

Note: I felt some trepidation including this one—mostly due to preconceived notions on what I assumed the vibes of this playlist would be like. Happy to be incorrect and it's funnier to have Weezer and Brand New here than on Jack's list (I'd sooner give Jack The Sweater Song, anyway). Side note: this is much funnier, in retrospect, now that I have Jack's set figured out; the vibes of that list are incredible, is what I'm saying.

✧ Onde Sensuelle ✧

-M-

Mais comment t'atteindre? Onde sensuelle

Toi qui me donnes des ailes

Pourrais-je te rendre un jour éternelle

Pour nous lier jusqu'au ciel

How could I reach you? Sensual wave

You who lend me wings?

Will I manage one day to make you eternal

And bind us toward the skies?

Note: An entirely vibes-based selection! Fitting, as this is the *I'm vibing* track.💜 Auto-translated, sssorry!

✧ Positive Contact ✧

Deltron 3030

Light-years from watchful eyes while my thoughts provide

I'm bio-enhanced

Hiero advanced series, monstrous evolution

Headed, tooth and nail, scoop the trail

Super-sleuth, a new race / Mad creator, savage nature

World Wide Web, the ebb and flow

Objectives to ostracize pompous prophecies

Note: Upon actually committing to making this playlist, I hoped to god there'd be a Deltron track I could use, because it would be so funny for Astos. I would've first heard this album not long after the 2008 reissue. The transition between this and Onde Sensuelle feels real good.

Brand New

✧ Okay, I Believe You,

But My Tommy Gun Don't ✧

This is the grace only we can bestow

This is the price you pay for loss of control

This is the break in the bend / This is the closest of calls

This is the reason you're alone / This is the rise and the fall!

Note: I actually switched this between playlists a couple of times before settling with Astos, but idk what I was thinking otherwise with lines like My tongue's the only muscle that works harder than my heart, lol. I think it was due to Jack's playlist feeling a little too Soft, at the time; past-me was incorrect, of course.

✧ It's Too Late ✧

Carole King

Though we really did try to make it

But it's too late, baby, now it's too late

Somethin' inside has died / And I can't hide it

I just can't fake it

Note: The quintessential breakup song!

But that was long ago

✧ Stardust ✧

Billy Ward and his Dominoes

And now my consolation / Is in the stardust of a song

Note: this is the first song I added to this playlist, and I always had it right at the end. something about having a bittersweet oldie felt like a nice echo of My Way. I would've first heard this via the Goodfellas soundtrack, which I wholeheartedly recommend.

Thanks for looking at whatever this is! While you're here, please be sure to check out @corvuscorona's excellent Astos playlist: SHADOW MONSTER.

[bandcampsnoop]

4/21/24.

When I saw that Chapter Music (Melbourne, Australia) was splitting a vinyl reissue of Guy Blackman (co-founder of Chapter Music and member of Minimum Chips), I was anticipating a good album.

I wasn't really expecting a great one. "Adult Baby" was originally released in 2007 and now is being reiussued by both Chapter Music and Pop Superette (Pierre, the label owner, is just amazing), a French label responsible for one of my favorite Bandcamp releases, Irmão Victor.

As usual, the Bandcamp write-up contains some gems I need to pass on. First, Guy Blackman is a "nerdy fan of Syd Barrett". His voice reminds me of the melancholy voices associated with Nick Drake, Belle and Sebastian, and Jens Lekman (who appears on the 3rd song!) And finally, the Bandcamp page hypothesizes how the Guy Blackman CD made it to France in the first place. The blame is laid at the feet of Maxwell Farrington - an Aussie living in France who says of Guy Blackman:

“Guy Blackman is one of Australia’s finest singer/songwriters. There are very, very few artists who can make me cry like he does. Normally I don’t give a damn about the lyrics, but with him it’s genius. After his moving (unpretentious) words come his graceful and sticky melodies and arrangements. ‘Adult Baby’ - this is a very important album for me, it’s the Mount Everest of Australian pop.”

[athetos]

Not going to do an official ranked list, but here are my favorite albums, EP/reiusses, and singles of 2023 thus far. I have a significant backlog I have to get through still, so I’ll update it in a month or so once I’ve torn through everything. Genres in parentheses.

Albums:

Panopticon - the rime of memory (atmospheric black metal)

Hot mulligan - why would I watch? (Emo)

Silent planet - superbloom (metalcore)

Anita velveeta - i saw the devil in Portland Oregon (emo)

Citizen - calling the dogs (alternative rock)

Beartooth - the surface (metalcore)

Creeper - sanguivore (rock)

Pvris - evergreen (alternative rock)

Sleep token - take me back to Eden (progressive metal)

Free throw - lessons that we swear to keep (emo)

EPs/Reissues:

The callous daoboys - god smiles upon the callous daoboys (Mathcore)

Portrayal of guilt - Devil music (black metal/screamo)

Pinkshift - suraksha (punk)

Deafheaven - sunbather remastered (blackgaze)

Blood incantation - luminescent bridge (death metal)

Better lovers - god made me an animal (hardcore)

Singles (either from albums that didn’t make the cut, or albums that aren’t out yet)

Glass Beach - CIA (post-emo)

Laura Jane Grace - dysphoria hoodie (folk punk)

Trash Boat - Liar Liar (metalcore)

Save Face feat. The callous daoboys - favorite lullaby (post-hardcore)

Ben Quad - would you tell Picasso to sell his guitars? (Emo)

Blink-182 - anthem part 3 (pop punk)

The menzingers - hope is a dangerous little thing (cowpunk)

Tigers Jaw, Joyce Manor - constant headache (emo)

Rivers of Nihil - hellbirds (technical death metal)

Mannequin Pussy - I Don’t Know You (alternative rock)

The wonder years - goddamnitall (pop punk)

Jessie ware - pearls (r&b)

Brutus - love won’t hide the ugliness (post-hardcore)

The story so far - big blind (pop punk)

Itoki Hana, Toby Fox - the greatest living show (rock)

Bayside, ice nine kills - how to ruin everything (patience) (punk)

Sum 41 - rise up (punk)

—-

All in all, I think my favorite EPs of all time came out this year, but there were some disappointments from big bands album-wise (taking back Sunday, the used).

My most anticipated for next year are albums from laura jane grace, glass beach, mannequin pussy, deftones, Ben quad, casey, and sum 41. Also ngl am insanely curious to see how job for a cowboy’s new album shapes up.

[jazzandother-blog]

“John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman"

“John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman" is a jazz album like no other. Released in 1963, this collaboration between saxophonist John Coltrane and vocalist Johnny Hartman is pure magic. The album features six romantic ballads, each one a testament to the duo's incredible chemistry. Coltrane's saxophone and Hartman's baritone voice blend seamlessly, creating an intimate and emotive experience.

Recorded in a single session at Rudy Van Gelder's studio, the album's production is legendary. Each track was captured in one take, showcasing the musicians' deep familiarity with the material. The simplicity of the arrangements allows the emotional depth of the performances to shine through. This album is a perfect example of how music can convey profound emotions with grace and elegance.

The album opens with "They Say It's Wonderful," setting the tone for the entire record. Coltrane's saxophone weaves around Hartman's vocals, creating a dialogue that is both tender and profound. The interplay between the musicians is palpable, making each track a standout. This album is a timeless classic that continues to captivate listeners.

Recorded on March 7, 1963, at Van Gelder Studio in Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey, the album was produced by Bob Thiele and released under Impulse! Records. The recording session was efficient and spontaneous, with most tracks being recorded in a single take.

“John Coltrane” was a pioneering saxophonist known for his innovative approach to harmony and improvisation. Leading up to this session, Coltrane was exploring more lyrical expressions in his music. “Johnny Hartman”, a jazz vocalist with a smooth baritone voice, brought a unique sensitivity to the ballads. Despite initial hesitations, Hartman's collaboration with Coltrane proved to be a perfect match.

“McCoy Tyner”, the pianist, was known for his powerful left-hand chords and harmonic approach. His contributions to this album are subtle yet profound. “Jimmy Garrison*”, the bassist, provided a solid foundation with his supportive and melodic bass lines. “Elvin Jones”, the drummer, showcased his versatility by adapting his dynamic style to the album's intimate context.

“They Say It's Wonderful" opens the album with a gentle and romantic tone. Hartman's smooth vocals and Coltrane's emotional saxophone create a warm atmosphere. “My One and Only Love” features a tender performance by both Hartman and Coltrane. The seamless interplay between the vocals and saxophone makes it my favorite track on the album. “Lush Life" is a poignant interpretation of Billy Strayhorn's classic song, with Coltrane's expressive saxophone complementing Hartman's sophisticated delivery. “Autumn Serenade" closes the album with a warm and inviting performance, showcasing the lyrical and expressive talents of both artists.

Upon its release, the album received critical acclaim for its unique collaboration and emotional depth. It showcased Coltrane's versatility and brought Hartman much-deserved recognition. The album's success helped elevate Hartman's profile in the jazz world.

Today, "John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman" is regarded as a timeless classic. Its continued significance lies in its ability to connect with listeners on an emotional level. The seamless interplay between Coltrane and Hartman creates a listening experience that is both intimate and powerful.

Recent reissues of the album have introduced it to new audiences, preserving its legacy for future generations. The album's enduring appeal continues to captivate listeners, ensuring its place as a beloved classic in the jazz canon.

"John Coltrane and Johnny Hartman" is more than just an album; it's a timeless masterpiece. The collaboration between Coltrane and Hartman, supported by Tyner, Garrison, and Jones, creates a listening experience that is both intimate and profound. This album remains a testament to the power of music to convey deep emotion and connect with listeners on a profound level.

Source: 3rd Street Jazz

[dollarbin]

Dollar Bin #15:

Gordon Lightfoot's Summer Side of Life

Forget Dylan going electric; let's talk about when Gordon Lightfoot did it.

I said so early on in our quest through the Dollar Bin, but I'll repeat it here: Gordon Lightfoot is The Lord of the Dollar Bin. He dwells there and holds the title because he recorded a zillion albums in the 60's and 70's that people are too dumb to seize.

Why don't they get seized? Maybe it's his perm; or maybe it's his occasional corpulence or his often regrettable mustache: Gordon always used his album covers to show off his latest look, and I'm not sure that was the best call.

Consider the cover for Dream Street Rose. Gordon presents himself as the stepdad you keep a leery eye on, the mechanic you supervise, the dentist you keep your mouth shut for, the first guy to get bounced out of the bar. He sure doesn't look like someone you should invite onto your turntable. He might knock it over.

His male peers were either handsome and/or goofy enough to grace their covers (Bob Dylan is a handsome dude and a goof; Bruce Springsteen is freaking hot) or they were smart enough, most of the time, to focus their album covers on something other than their gangly looks (here's looking at you Neil Young!).

But don't be fooled by Gord's covers; every Lightfoot album, from the greatest hits collection Gord's Gold (for which he wears the most pleather of jackets) to Back Here On Earth (for which he sniffs a daisy, sensitivey) is a Dollar Bin steal. And Summer Side of Life is a Dollar Bin behemoth.

Summer Side of Life came out on the heels of what most Gordos (that's what you can call the most serious fans of Gordon, like me) consider his masterpiece, 1970's Sit Down Stranger (which was reissued almost immediately as If You Could Read My Mind). That record saw him do more than offer up one of the greatest songs ever written (that would be, of course, If You Could Read My Mind; and if you don't consider that song to be one of the greatest songs ever written, please, reader, read my mind: you are wrong.) 1970 also saw Lightfoot pivot up to Neil's own Reprise Records, and with the move you can hear him beginning to trade his humble Canadian penchant for simple folk-country production for the orchestration and grandeur one associates with "serious" 70's artists.

Take a listen to his expanded palate on Poor Little Allison. The guy who once lived off rice, beans and brewskies has ordered up some guac.

So, let's call Sit Down Stanger/IYCRMML his version of Bringing it All Back Home: new instruments come in, and there is even a whisper of drums in the mix, but he's not ready/allowed to leave his winning folky formula behind for good.

Summer Side of Life, recorded in late 1970, is where Gord puts his foot down and declares full revolution, complete with bayonets, cannons and intrigue; Summer Side of Life is therefore his Highway 61 Revisited. Is it as good as that? No. Nothing is! But Summer Side of Life is awesome enough for the analogy to (mostly) hold up.

Let's go song by song on this edition of the Dollar Bin, and thereby demonstrate that Gord is indeed gold.

Side 1.

The record opens with a reminder that Lightfoot likes to write about the weather. The sleigh bells in his classic Song for a Winter's Night take us out into the glistening snow; and of course he knows all about the Early Morning Rain. And so we are instantly comfortable and hooked by 10 Degrees and Getting Colder.

And the characters! By verse two I'm already anxious about the roving musician who's trying to get home to mother. Listen for the tambourine to come in, especially during the bridge. No one is playing the Moog or a sitar here, but Gord's already on track to redefine his signature sound.

And then we come to the second track, Miguel. Drop the needle immediately on Gord's passionate, stirring and straight-up lovey rewrite of Spanish is the Loving Tongue.

Was Gord reading All the Pretty Horses while he wrote this? Hell no; that book came out 20 years after this song. Rather, Cormac McCarthy must be a big deal Gordo. Feel free to skip the novel, says I. You can just listen to Miguel instead.

The third track, Go My Way, is classic Lightfoot: three minutes of note perfect confectionery. It's like eating cream puffs while drinking beer. They're good together!

And then there's the title track. The omnipresent Kenny Buttrey shows up in a big way on Summer Side of Life, reminding us that this is a Nashville Record. What doesn't good old Kenny play on from this era? Was he the only drummer in Nashville? His Wikipedia page must be as long as Chewbacca's. They're both in everything, and they are always driving the beat/spaceship. They even kinda look alike!

But the real jedi master on Summer Side of Life is Richard Haynes on bass. He sounds like Jaco Pastorius here, and that dude was probably about 6 years old at this point. Listen to Haynes riff above the melody rather than dwell passively below.

I love this track. Everything swells and sways. Gord was always too polite to write anything abrasive and reckless to compete with Like a Rolling Stone. But I'd argue songs like this one show he could write on an epic scale all the same. I'd be good with this song playing, alongside Carefree Highway, on giant speakers while my grandkids spread my ashes about in the backyard while cracking jokes about their crazy grandpa. Check that. I'll be stoked if that's what happens.

I suspect that the next track, Cotton Jenny, is why this record is not considered a masterpeice on par with IYCRMM. There's nothing wrong with the track - the arrangement is dense and complex and, when compared to what Dylan had done early that year to Little Sadie in a studio next door, the song is utterly masterful - but the melody falls into Gord's bubblegum category alongside other Lightfoot lightweights like Rainy Day People and Boss Man.

Perhaps it's because of Cotton Jenny's upbeat, sing-song riff that it was chosen as the only song from this record, other than the title track, to appear on Gord's Gold.

For anyone out there who doesn't own Lightfoot records and yet is, bizarrely, still reading this: Gord's Gold is your best first purchase. The Dollar Bin has plenty of copies, despite the fact that I routinely buy the record for my friends. I just feel like everyone deserves a copy.

I came of age listening to Gord's Gold. My buddy Eric and I would jubilantly declare our own bedtime long after midnight during our middle school sleepovers by blasting his dad's copy of disc 1. Lightfoot's trembling vibrato served our teenager idea of irony well when paired with our favorite song of that era, Dinosaur Jr's The Wagon.

Purberty was dropping our voices in its uniquely erratic fashion at that point so singing along with good old Gordon about the Ribbon of Darkness checked every box of hilarity we needed.

But we'd fall asleep long before Cotton Jenny ever came on, and whenever I did make it that far in Gord's Gold I always found the track skip worthy. It was too happy, too pop-infused, too sweet. So when my wife brought Summer Side of Life home from the thrift store for me 6 to 10 years ago, I was polite but not stoked. I already had the song Summer Side of Life on Gord's Gold, and none of the other titles looked promising. Plus Cotton Jenny was on it.

However, my wife, for reasons best known to her, loathes Gordon Lightfoot. So her gift was a very generous one, even it had cost a grand total 50 cents. So I played it. No one else in the family cared too much, but I was instantly ashamed of having passed Summer Side of Life by in the Dollar Bin for 20+ years.

Let's all pause for a moment and acknowledge my sainted wife. She isn't Dylan girlfriend material: she doesn't cook, sew or make flowers grow for me; rather she is the greatest human in the history of humans. And she bought me Summer Side of Life.

Back to our song by song meander:

Happily, after we make it through Cotton Jenny, Gordon ends Side 1 with one of his greatest and least appreciated songs. You won't find Talking in Your Sleep on Gord's Gold, or even on any of the subsequent and expanded "best of" packages that followed. But it's a better love song than Softly or Beautiful and it's a worthy successor to the best story of strained love this side of Blood on the Tracks, If You Could Read My Mind.

Enjoy the perfect picking, sway along with Buttery's driving murmur, reach out for the pulsing bass, and then, midway through, marvel at The Jordanaires' odd, yet perfect, backing vocals. Slow down, my friends. Slow down and listen to Gordon Lightfoot calling out to us, lending each of us some pure Dollar Bin beauty on this fine Friday.

Side 2!

We open with a bilingual piece of grace, Nous Vivons Ensemble. I love hearing English speaking artists sing in French, a language I cannot count past un du tua in. Think of Leonard Cohen crossing that surreal, trembling border in The Partisan, or Sandy Denny explaining Dylan to French people in Si Tu Dois Partir. Remember Mick Jagger busting out his grammar school knowledge of the language in Brussels in 73 while he struts and sweats and whoops. Best yet, think of James McNew mangling the language and probably the entire culture on A Plea for Tenderness.

Lightfoot, alternatively, clearly speaks French well enough to write a song in the language, then warble it over a hunting piano borrowed from the Bryter Layter sessions. Hey Gord: Je vous aime. Like, totally.

And then there's Same Old Loverman. Yes, Gordon Lightfoot wrote a song with that title and he sings it with a straight face. It's pure and perfect schmaltz, and I love every note. Again, listen to the bass! There are two separate and glorious lines of it side by side in the opening, then again in the bass solo at the 2 minute mark. Yes, this song has a bass solo, and that allows Gordon ample time to drop in on seven separate ladies midsong. All of them swoon.

I find it incomprehensible that Dylan, who is a huge Gordo himself, has never covered this track. My Famous Brother is probably standing up and shouting at this moment that Dylan did indeed cover Same Old Loverman in February, 1996 while touring Sweden on the Neverending Tour. If that's indeed the case, spend me a link Bro! I'll bet Bob sounds like he's singing about a Sane, Bold Lumberjack. I hope he plays Handy Dandy directly afterwards.

Redwood Hill finds us suddenly in Cajun country; Lightfoot sets the stage for much of the rest of Paul Simon's career here by successfully dipping a beautiful big toe in a foreign genre for one single song before abandoning that genre and moving on. If I was a Ragin' Cajun I'd call this cultural appropriation. But I'm not Ragin' or Cajun, so I'm into it.

Love and Maple Syrup should be as awkward as the title, and the transition between verses is a bit clunky, I guess, but otherwise this is classic hometown Lightfoot. People in Gordon's hometown don't just talk about the home team, which is still on fire. They also contemplate the laws of nature and line up to rob the forest of her wine; everyone longs to be understood.

Three different times in the track there's a slightly unhinged guitar piece that Gordon doubles with his voice. Keep in mind that this was recorded pretty much at the same moment as Moondance and Stephen Stills' paean to all things terrible, Love the One your With. In 1970 Stephen Still was just beginning his reign of harmonic terror and Van Morrison was still figuring out what music could be made with his voice. Meanwhile, Gordon was recording his sixth album. Five years later Van the Man would record the greatest jazz/pop live record of all time by any grumpy, anti-vaccing white dude, but in 1971 Gord was his Dad. And Stephen Stills forever trembles before them both, cowering.

Cabaret ends the record and is its oddest song. The track definitely is not Lightfoot's Desolation Row, so my Highway 61 analogy has fallen on hard times at this point. But the song's title is apropos: this is really a collection of unrelated side by side performances rather than a unified song. Belle and Sebastian's future horn section jumps in and out early on; the guitar work initially doodles without any direction. It all sounds odd, especially for someone as finicky about arrangements as Lightfoot.

But then, mid-track, we find ourselves in a totally unrelated road song. We're on our way to Reno from north On-tar-I-0. And that's a long drive! I checked Google Maps and they refuse to even calculate the distance or drive time. But the bass is once again bubbling conversationally and we fade out of this wonderful record wishing we were taking an even longer drive with good old Gord.

Rest in peace, Gordon Lightfoot. Thank you for forever lording over the Dollar Bin; you made timeless beauty for us all to treasure.

[y-ta-nees-simblr]

Chapter 1.22 - Dinner with Kings

When Andria stepped into the private dining area, she was startled to find her Aunt Nikole was not alone.

Two men were also present, whom she recognized for different reasons. The one sitting with her aunt on the sofa, was the more famous of the two men.

“Aunt Nikole? What’s going on here?”

Nikole stood and so did the man that had been sitting with her.

“Hey, bug!” Nikole pulled her goddaughter in for a hug and kiss on the cheek. “How’ve you been? Where’s Devon.”

“I’ve been fine. Devon is home. What’s going on? Why is the King of Vinford at our dinner? And how do you know Mr. Richard.”

It was Nikole’s turn to be surprised, “You know King Elias?”

“King Elias?!” Andi turned to her favorite chess partner.

“You’re King Elias?!”

“Wait, dad, you’ve already met Andria?” Anthony asked.

Nia remained quite as she was probably the only person in the room who had a complete picture.

“Nia you’re suspiciously quiet back there.” Nikole said.

“I always knew this would be messy.” Nia said.

“Can someone please just explain to me what the hell is going on?” Andria said.

“Andi…” Nia began slowly, but she was interrupted by Elias.

“Andria, I’m your grandfather.”

“My what?!” Andria sat down in the nearest chair. “I’m sorry, but you’re my grandfather? And you never thought to tell me over the last ten years we’ve been playing chess in the town square?”

Elias, Anthony, and Nikole all sat down as well while Nia remained standing with her back against the wall.

“I was afraid if you knew who I was, I’d never get the chance to get to know you.”

“I don’t understand. You’re my grandfather, and you’re the retired king. What about all of the stories you told me about your life, your family. Are any of those true?”

“Andi, I may not have told you who I am, but I’ve never lied to you. Everything I’ve ever told you is true. Especially about how I regret the way I treated your mother.”

“Your daughter, the one who ran away and died a few years later, was Princess Tatiana…and Princess Tatiana was my mother. I…” Andria looked to her aunt. “My mom’s name was Tia Beaumont. I know this. It’s a fact. It’s on my birth certificate. She was not Tatiana Sovanti.”

“Tatiana Grace Sovanti.” Anthony corrected. “Grace is a family name, after Queen Grace. To me, she was Tia. In school, she was Tiana. Just like no one who actually knows dad calls him Elias. He’s Richard, or some form of the name. I go by Tony.”

“But the legal document would need her legal name.” Andria tried to reason.

“The birth certificate you have was reissued after she legally changed her name when she turned 20. The original document was destroyed.” Nikole explained.

“Not exactly.” Anthony said.

“What do you mean not exactly?” Andi asked.

“I kept track of Tia, and you, as best I could. When the Royal Trust’s network learned that Tia had changed her name; they obtained all of the original documents she had to turn in and filed them away. Tony’s got those documents now.”

“Of course, Tia always said she could never truly get away from it all.” Nikole said.

“You…?” Andi looked at Nikole confused.

“I just would like a complete story. Can someone, anyone give me that?” Andi begged.

[krispyweiss]

Album Review: Blind Boys of Alabama - Live in New Orleans

Released in audio and video formats in 2009 and subsequently taken out of print, Blind Boys of Alabama’s Live in New Orleans has been reissued for streaming.

The sonic equivalent of a paperback book, this re-release is most welcome as the LP captures the vocal group at a 21st-century peak on the vaunted Tipitina’s stage alongside friends Susan Tedeschi, Marva Wright, Dr. John, Preservation Hall Jazz Band and Henry Butler.

The recording is a perfect balance between what’s happening on stage and how it’s received in the audience. So when a guitar solo slices into the Blind Boys’ “House of the Rising Sun” arrangement of “Amazing Grace” or Tedeschi shreds her vocal cords on “People Get Ready,” the rapturous concertgoers are part of the electrifying mix.

Featuring gospel songs by secular artists (Tom Waits’ “Down in the Hole,” Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky”), pure New Orleanian strut (PHJB’s “Bourbon Street Parade”) and all-hands-on-deck worship (“I’ll Fly Away”), Live in New Orleans can make believers of agnostics and entertain the atheists while sating the faithful. For while secularism pervades life in New Orleans, soft-sell Christianity is Live in New Orleans’ and the Blind Boys’ calling card.

Paise what- or whomever you like - the second coming of this LP is reason for joy.

Grade card: Blind Boys of Alabama - Live in New Orleans - A

3/5/24

[grandhotelabyss]

Thoughts on Guy Davenport?

A great essayist, the generalist to rebuke all specialists, whose dizzying associations gradually overlap and braid together until all of humane culture appears as a unity. He was almost the last of that type, after his friend Kenner, or, in a more strictly academic vein, the likes of Frye and Auerbach. But Kenner, Frye, Auerbach—or even Bloom, Steiner, Sontag—all feel much heavier, more armored and therefore crushing in their erudition, while Davenport had the lightest touch. He was a true belletrist, an amateur in the etymological sense, who seemed to be doing it for fun.

I'll give just one example, from the title essay in the soon-to-be reissued collection, The Geography of the Imagination. I quoted part of it here before almost a decade ago, so I assume it's been forgotten by now: a literally extravagant ("from Latin extra- ‘outside' + vagari 'wander'") exegesis of Poe, who stands revealed, by the time Davenport is finished, neither as a panting pulp scribbler nor a dipsomaniacal poète maudit but as an encyclopedist of Joycean proportions, except in miniature:

Poe titled the collection of his stories published that year Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. These two adjectives have given critics trouble for years. Grotesque, as Poe found it in the writings of Sir Walter Scott, means something close to Gothic, an adjective designating the Goths and their architecture, and what the neoclassical eighteenth century thought of mediaeval art in general, that it was ugly but grand. It was the fanciful decoration by the Italians of grottoes, or caves, with shells, and statues of ogres and giants from the realm of legend, that gave the word grotesque its meaning of freakish, monstrous, misshapen. Arabesque clearly means the intricate, nonrepresentational, infinitely graceful decorative style of Islam, best known to us through their carpets, the geometric tile-work of their mosques, and their calligraphy. Had Poe wanted to designate the components of his imagination more accurately, his title would have been Tales of the Grotesque, Arabesque, and Classical. For Poe in all his writing divided all his imagery up into these three distinct species. Look back at the pictures on the wall in his ideal room [in the essay “The Philosophy of Furniture”]. In one we have grottoes and a view of the Dismal Swamp: this is the grotesque mode. Then female heads in the manner of Sully: this is the classical mode. The wallpaper against which they hang is Arabesque. In the other room we had a scene of Oriental luxury: the arabesque, a carnival piece beyond compare (Poe means masked and costumed people, at Mardi Gras, as in “The Cask of the Amontillado” and “The Masque of the Red Death.”): the grotesque, and a Greek female head: the classical. A thorough inspection of Poe’s work will disclose that he performs variations and mutations of these three vocabularies of imagery. We can readily recognize those works in which a particular idiom is dominant. The great octosyllabic sonnet “To Helen,” for instance, is classical, “The Fall of the House of Usher” is grotesque, and “Israfel” is arabesque.”

But no work is restricted to one mode; the other two are there also. We all know the beautiful "To Helen," written when he was still a boy:

Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicaean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore.

On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome.

Lo! in yon brilliant window niche How statue-like I see thee stand, The agate lamp within thy hand! Ah, Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land!

The words are as magic as Keats, but what is the sense? Sappho, whom Poe is imitating, had compared a woman's beauty to a fleet of ships. Byron had previously written lines that Poe outbyrons Byron with, in "the glory that was Greece / And the grandeur that was Rome." But how is Helen also Psyche; who is the wanderer coming home? Scholars are not sure. In fact, the poem is not easy to defend against the strictures of critics. We can point out that Nicaean is not, as has been charged, a pretty bit of gibberish, but the adjective for the city of Nice, where a major shipworks was: Marc Antony's fleet was built there. We can defend perfumed sea, which has been called silly, by noting that classical ships never left sight of land, and could smell orchards on shore, that perfumed oil was an extensive industry in classical times and that ships laden with it would smell better than your shipload of sheep. Poe is normally far more exact than he is given credit for.

That window-niche, however, slipped in from Northern Europe; it is Gothic, a slight tone of the grotto in this almost wholly classical poem. And the closing words, "Holy Land," belong to the Levant, to the arabesque.

Now I haven't read Davenport's fiction yet. Word on the street is that the best of it is a pederastic fantasia on themes from Fourier, but I could be wrong.

[retromusicart]

I need to know

I need to know

If you think you're gonna leave, then you better say so

Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers - You're Gonna Get It! (Shelter, 1978) - Design by Kosh, photograph by David Alexander

After gracing the debut album cover himself, Petty now has his fellow band mates for the followup. Pretty selfless act, at least for this one.

The inner sleeve cover, taken by Zox, features Petty carrying a mirror reflecting himself and the group. This cover has been used for their 1993 Greatest Hits album since its 15th anniversary reissue in 2008.

Images courtesy of Discogs.

[c-40]

A-T-3 249 Freestyle Reissues

Freestyle is a terrific reissue label, and like me, they know 1983 was a stellar year for popular music. Here are some of the more recent reissues put out by Freestyle originally released in 1983, I think they're all UK acts, they certainly illustrate the unique mix of talent we're luck to have here. Another great thing about Freestyle is they include notes, check out the bandcamp https://freestylerecords.bandcamp.com or the descriptions on the YouTube videos

State of Grace - Touching the Times also has a lovely instrumental

Take Three - Breakers Night special version of Tonight's the Night

T.J. Johnson Band - I Can Make It (Good for You) the instrumental Dragonfly on the b-side is also excellent

Chequers - If You Want My Love b-side of Hard Times

Chartz - Girls World (Extended Instrumental Dance Mix)

Tony Jackson - Steppin' out on the Groove

[kulturegroupie]

Led Zeppelin Update: Dec. 11, 2022

A recap of the past few weeks

Robert Plant played at a pub with Tommy McLain and C. C. Adcock of Saving Grace at The Bridges pub in Ratlinghope on the afternoon of Nov. 27. A video of Robert performing "Season Of The Witch", "For What It's Worth" and "Black Dog" (plus a little bit of "Whole Lotta Love" at the end) with the band was posted by 'The Bridges' Ratlinghope on Facebook on Nov. 28:

Another video of Robert performing backing vocals on "Before I Grow Too Old" with the band was posted by anacondamedia on Instagram on Dec. 2.

C. C. Adcock also posted a few photographs of himself with Robert at the pub:

(Nov. 29)

He also announced in this Instagram post that a deluxe box-set reissue of the Honeydrippers "Volume One" EP is going to be released:

“Proud to announce that a few @fatsdominoofficial tracks that we cut with @robertplantofficial back in the day, just after Hurricane Katrina, will be included in the deluxe extended edition box-set reissue of RP's great 1980's Honeydrippers record.

A wild dream to see my name next to Page & Beck in the guitar credits... And dear Warren Storm's drumming credit next to Phil Collins and Carmine Appice. The sole accordion listing goes to @steveriley_ !!!”

"Can't Let Go", "Gone Gone Gone (Done Moved On)", "Trouble With My Lover", "Quattro (World Drifts In)" and "High And Lonesome" from Robert Plant and Alison Krauss' recent episode of CMT Crossroads (broadcasted on Nov. 29) have been recently uploaded to YouTube by this channel.

sources: (x) (x)

[weedjedi]

On this momentous day in 1999, the world was graced with the much-anticipated arrival of "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace." Reflecting back to a bygone era in 1982, I vividly recall my presence in a lengthy queue, eagerly awaiting the spectacle of "E.T., The Extra Terrestrial." In that spirited congregation, a gentleman fervently expounded upon George Lucas' visionary creation, the epic space opera, and dared to speculate about the possibility of capturing the prelude to "A New Hope" on celluloid. Even then, such a prospect seemed remote, an improbable dream destined to remain unfulfilled.

Then, the tantalizing trailer materialized before our collective gaze. Every eye in attendance was rapt, absorbing those initial moments, shrouded in the ethereal mists of the swamp. Each passing second became an exquisite ordeal, as we yearned to traverse the boundaries of the original series, which had been reissued in enhanced iterations for theatrical reprise. The technical wizardry unveiled was nothing short of extraordinary, dazzling us with its unfathomable, well, gradeur.

Darth Maul emerged as an indomitable antagonist, a remarkable addition to the ever-evolving pantheon of adversaries. Though his presence was tragically fleeting, his impact was indelible. The enigmatic Jar Jar, admittedly an excess for many, including myself, failed to diminish our collective enthusiasm. The exhilaration was palpable, surging through our veins as we basked in the energy of the unforgettable spectacle of the Pod Race, a tribute to Ben-Hur's chariot race, and the most spectacular lightsaber duel to date. Truly, it was a time imbued with ceaseless excitement and, yes, new hope...

Yet, in its trailblazing glory, "Star Wars: The Phantom Menace" marked more than just the genesis of new, uncharted Star Wars territory. It signaled a profound denouement for the original Star Wars saga, crystallizing its legendary status within the annals of cinematic history. With unwavering fortitude, those three original films forged an immutable legacy, forever etching their indomitable spirit into the hearts and minds of enthusiasts across the galaxy. WeedJedi.com