#but i have that deep rooted hatred for men in the 70s and 80s

[ren-the3rd]

for someone who chronically can’t cope with death as a concept, i think about dead people quite a lot

like what do you mean the drivers my brain has decided to zero in on are elio and ayrton? insane behavior from someone who pretends her dead relatives aren’t dead

[silver-whistle]

More thoughts about Thomas Carlyle…

And his tripped-out take on the French Revolution.

I don’t think any of us here need feel embarrassed about drooling over the dashing young men of the Revolution, given how Carlyle drools over the women. Théroigne, Lamballe, Roland… He goes so far over the top, it’s ridiculous, and some of it patronising as hell. (And he wants to be Thor?!!!)

And as for the rest… This is the root of so much bad historiography and most of the bloody awful fiction about the French Revolution (Dickens, Orczy & c all based their vision of the Revolution on this truly barking book).

Behind the cut, Carlyle being overwrought and over-writing… Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Maria Teresa Luisa of Savoy-Carignan, Princesse de Lamballe:

Princess de Lamballe has lain down on bed: "Madame, you are to be removed to the Abbaye." "I do not wish to remove; I am well enough here." There is a need-be for removing. She will arrange her dress a little, then; rude voices answer, "You have not far to go." She too is led to the hell-gate; a manifest Queen's-Friend. She shivers back, at the sight of bloody sabres; but there is no return: Onwards! That fair hindhead is cleft with the axe; the neck is severed. That fair body is cut in fragments; with indignities, and obscene horrors of moustachio grands-levres, which human nature would fain find incredible,—which shall be read in the original language only. She was beautiful, she was good, she had known no happiness. Young hearts, generation after generation, will think with themselves: O worthy of worship, thou king-descended, god-descended and poor sister-woman! why was not I there; and some Sword Balmung, or Thor's Hammer in my hand? Her head is fixed on  a pike; paraded under the windows of the Temple; that a still more hated, a Marie-Antoinette, may see. One Municipal, in the Temple with the Royal Prisoners at the moment, said, "Look out." Another eagerly whispered, "Do not look." The circuit of the Temple is guarded, in these hours, by a long stretched tricolor riband: terror enters, and the clangour of infinite tumult: hitherto not regicide, though that too may come.

[Except most of this didn’t happen…]

Manon Roland:

Among whom, courting no notice, and yet the notablest of all, what queenlike Figure is this; with her escort of house-friends and Champagneux the Patriot Editor; come abroad with the earliest? Radiant with enthusiasm are those dark eyes, is that strong Minerva-face, looking dignity and earnest joy; joyfullest she where all are joyful. It is Roland de la Platriere's Wife! (Madame Roland, Memoires, i. (Discours Preliminaire, p. 23).) Strict elderly Roland, King's Inspector of  Manufactures here; and now likewise, by popular choice, the strictest of our new Lyons Municipals: a man who has gained much, if worth and faculty be gain; but above all things, has gained to wife Phlipon the Paris      Engraver's daughter. Reader, mark that queenlike burgher-woman: beautiful, Amazonian-graceful to the eye; more so to the mind. Unconscious of her worth (as all worth is), of her greatness, of her crystal  clearness; genuine, the creature of Sincerity and Nature, in an age of Artificiality, Pollution and Cant; there, in her still completeness, in her still invincibility, she, if thou knew it, is the noblest of all living Frenchwomen,—and will be seen, one day. O blessed rather while unseen, even of herself! For the present she gazes, nothing doubting, into this grand theatricality; and thinks her young dreams are to be fulfilled.  […]

Noble white Vision, with its high queenly face, its soft proud eyes, long black hair flowing down to the girdle; and as brave a heart as ever beat in woman's bosom! Like a white Grecian Statue, serenely complete, she shines in that black wreck of things;—long memorable. Honour to great Nature who, in Paris City, in the Era of Noble-Sentiment and Pompadourism, can make a Jeanne Phlipon, and nourish her to clear perennial Womanhood, though but on Logics, Encyclopedies, and the Gospel according to Jean-Jacques! Biography will long remember that trait of asking for a pen "to write the strange thoughts that were rising in her." It is as a little light-beam, shedding softness, and a kind of sacredness, over all that preceded: so in her too there was an Unnameable; she too was a Daughter of the Infinite; there were mysteries which Philosophism had not dreamt of!

Anne Théroigne:

But where is the brown-locked, light-behaved, fire-hearted Demoiselle     Theroigne? Brown eloquent Beauty; who, with thy winged words and glances, shalt thrill rough bosoms, whole steel battalions, and persuade an Austrian Kaiser,—pike and helm lie provided for thee in due season; and, alas, also strait-waistcoat and long lodging in the Salpetriere! Better hadst thou staid in native Luxemburg, and been the mother of some brave man's children: but it was not thy task, it was not thy lot. […]

One thing we will specify to throw light on many: the aspect under which,     seen through the eyes of these Girondin Twelve, or even seen through one's own eyes, the Patriotism of the softer sex presents itself. There are Female Patriots, whom the Girondins call Megaeras, and count to the extent  of eight thousand; with serpent-hair, all out of curl; who have changed the distaff for the dagger. They are of 'the Society called Brotherly,' Fraternelle, say Sisterly, which meets under the roof of the Jacobins. 'Two thousand daggers,' or so, have been ordered,—doubtless, for  them. They rush to Versailles, to raise more women; but the Versailles women will not rise. (Buzot, Memoires, pp. 69, 84; Meillan, Memoires, pp. 192, 195, 196. See Commission des Douze in Choix des Rapports, xii. 69-131.)    

Nay, behold, in National Garden of Tuileries,—Demoiselle Theroigne herself is become as a brownlocked Diana (were that possible) attacked by her own dogs, or she-dogs! The Demoiselle, keeping her carriage, is for Liberty indeed, as she has full well shewn; but then for Liberty with Respectability: whereupon these serpent-haired Extreme She-Patriots now do fasten on her, tatter her, shamefully fustigate her, in their shameful way; almost fling her into the Garden-ponds, had not help intervened. Help, alas, to small purpose. The poor Demoiselle's head and nervous-system, none of the soundest, is so tattered and fluttered that it will never recover; but flutter worse and worse, till it crack;  and within year and day we hear of her in madhouse, and straitwaistcoat, which proves permanent!—Such brownlocked Figure did flutter, and inarticulately jabber and gesticulate, little able to speak the obscure meaning it had, through some segment of that Eighteenth Century of Time. She disappears here from the Revolution and Public History, for evermore. (Deux Amis, vii. 77-80; Forster, i. 514; Moore, i. 70. She did not die till 1817; in the Salpetriere, in the most abject state of insanity; see Esquirol, Des Maladies Mentales (Paris, 1838), i. 445-50.) 

Max vs Georges:

One conceives easily the deep mutual incompatibility that divided these two: with what terror of feminine hatred the poor seagreen Formula looked at the monstrous colossal Reality, and grew greener to behold him;—the Reality, again, struggling to think no ill of a chief-product of the Revolution; yet feeling at bottom that such chief-product was little other than a chief wind-bag, blown large by Popular air; not a man with the heart of a man, but a poor spasmodic incorruptible pedant, with a logic-formula instead of heart; of Jesuit or Methodist-Parson nature; full of sincere-cant, incorruptibility, of virulence, poltroonery; barren as the east-wind! Two such chief-products are too much for one Revolution.  

Supreme Being:

All the world is there, in holydays clothes: (Vilate, Causes Secretes de la Revolution de 9 Thermidor.) foul linen went out with theHebertists; nay Robespierre, for one, would never once countenance that; but went always elegant and frizzled, not without vanity even,—and had his room hung round with seagreen Portraits and Busts. In holyday  clothes, we say, are the innumerable Citoyens and Citoyennes: the weather is of the brightest; cheerful expectation lights all countenances. Juryman Vilate gives breakfast to many a Deputy, in his official Apartment, in the Pavillon ci-devant of Flora; rejoices in the bright-looking multitudes, in the brightness of leafy June, in the auspicious Decadi, or New-Sabbath.  This day, if it please Heaven, we are to have, on improved Anti-Chaumette principles: a New Religion.         

Catholicism being burned out, and Reason-worship guillotined, was there      not need of one? Incorruptible Robespierre, not unlike the Ancients, as      Legislator of a free people will now also be Priest and Prophet. He has      donned his sky-blue coat, made for the occasion; white silk waistcoat      broidered with silver, black silk breeches, white stockings, shoe-buckles      of gold. He is President of the Convention; he has made the Convention      decree, so they name it, decreter the 'Existence of the Supreme Being,'      and likewise 'ce principe consolateur of the Immortality of the Soul.'      These consolatory principles, the basis of rational Republican Religion,      are getting decreed; and here, on this blessed Decadi, by help of Heaven      and Painter David, is to be our first act of worship. 

See, accordingly, how after Decree passed, and what has been called 'the scraggiest Prophetic Discourse ever uttered by man,'—Mahomet Robespierre, in sky-blue coat and black breeches, frizzled and powdered to perfection, bearing in his hand a bouquet of flowers and wheat-ears,  issues proudly from the Convention Hall; Convention following him, yet, as is remarked, with an interval. Amphitheatre has been raised, or at least Monticule or Elevation; hideous Statues of Atheism, Anarchy and such like,  thanks to Heaven and Painter David, strike abhorrence into the heart. Unluckily however, our Monticule is too small. On the top of it not half  of us can stand; wherefore there arises indecent shoving, nay treasonous   irreverent growling. Peace, thou Bourdon de l'Oise; peace, or it may be worse for thee! 

The seagreen Pontiff takes a torch, Painter David handing it; mouths some  other froth-rant of vocables, which happily one cannot hear; strides resolutely forward, in sight of expectant France; sets his torch to Atheism and Company, which are but made of pasteboard steeped in turpentine. They burn up rapidly; and, from within, there rises 'by machinery' an incombustible Statue of Wisdom, which, by ill hap, getsbesmoked a little; but does stand there visible in as serene attitude as it can.

And then? Why, then, there is other Processioning, scraggy Discoursing, and—this is our Feast of the Etre Supreme; our new Religion, better or worse, is come!—Look at it one moment, O Reader, not two. The Shabbiest page of Human Annals: or is there, that thou wottest of, one shabbier? Mumbo-Jumbo of the African woods to me seems venerable beside this new Deity of Robespierre; for this is a conscious Mumbo-Jumbo, and knows that he is machinery. O seagreen Prophet, unhappiest of windbags blown nigh to bursting, what distracted Chimera among realities are thou growing to! This then, this common pitch-link for artificial fireworks of turpentine and pasteboard; this is the miraculous Aaron's Rod thou wilt stretch over a hag-ridden hell-ridden France, and bid her plagues cease?  Vanish, thou and it!—"Avec ton Etre Supreme," said Billaud, "tu   commences m'embeter: With thy Etre Supreme thou beginnest to be a bore to me." (See Vilate, Causes Secretes. Vilate's Narrative is very curious; but is not to be taken as true, without sifting; being, at bottom, in spite of its title, not a Narrative but a Pleading.)      

Where  Assassin’s Creed got some of its idiocy:

 One other thing, or rather two other things, we will still mention; and no      more: The Blond Perukes; the Tannery at Meudon. Great talk is of these      Perruques blondes: O Reader, they are made from the Heads of Guillotined   women! The locks of a Duchess, in this way, may come to cover the scalp of a Cordwainer: her blond German Frankism his black Gaelic poll, if it be bald. Or they may be worn affectionately, as relics; rendering one suspect? (Mercier, ii. 134.) Citizens use them, not without mockery; of a rather cannibal sort.    

Still deeper into one's heart goes that Tannery at Meudon; not mentioned      among the other miracles of tanning! 'At Meudon,' says Montgaillard with      considerable calmness, 'there was a Tannery of Human Skins; such of the     Guillotined as seemed worth flaying: of which perfectly good wash-leather   was made:' for breeches, and other uses. The skin of the men, he remarks, was superior in toughness (consistance) and quality to shamoy; that of women was good for almost nothing, being so soft in texture! (Montgaillard,   iv. 290.)—History looking back over Cannibalism, through Purchas's Pilgrims and all early and late Records, will perhaps find no terrestrial Cannibalism of a sort on the whole so detestable. It is a manufactured, soft-feeling, quietly elegant sort; a sort perfide! Alas then, is man's civilisation only a wrappage, through which the savage nature of him can still burst, infernal as ever? Nature still makes him; and has an Infernal in her as well as a Celestial.    

[popentertainmentconcertreviews]

Kris Kristofferson – The Keswick Theatre – Glenside, PA – January 25, 2017

Songwriter.  Movie star. Outlaw.  Rhodes Scholar.  Addict. Singer.  Soldier.  Character actor.  Sex symbol. Penitent.  Athlete.  Storyteller. Poet.  Party Animal.  Silver-Tongued Devil.  Military brat.  Rebel. Highwayman.  Janitor.  Half of a celebrity couple.  Cowboy. Old coot.  Legend.  

Kris Kristofferson has worn a lot of hats in his eight decades on this mortal coil.  However, it is probably agreed though that his greatest skill was that of songwriter. In fact some of his lyrics are worthy of the some of the finest names of the last century – in the ballpark of Dylan, Simon, Cohen, Lennon/McCartney, Nyro, Newman, Nilsson, David, etc.  

Kristofferson was never known quite as much as a singer, because his voice was a rough-hewn, lived-in tool that was evocative but far from crystalline perfection.  It's not a coincidence that many of his most iconic songs – "Me and Bobby McGee," "Help Me Make It Through the Night," "Sunday Morning Coming Down" and "For the Good Times" – became big hits when covered by other artists.  (Janis Joplin, Sammi Smith, Johnny Cash and Ray Price had the biggest hits with those often-covered songs, in order.)  

He is arguably one of the most important voices of country music of the 60s through the 80s.  After all, this guy is one of the two surviving members on the Mount Rushmore of the outlaw country movement, with his old friends (and former Highwaymen band mates) Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.

Now eighty years old, the imperfections in his voice have been hardened by fast living and the creep of time.  Not many men his age – or much younger, for that matter – could keep a sold-out theater rapt with just an acoustic guitar, two harmonicas, a slightly ravaged voice and a deep songbook which reaches back about 50 years.  

Kristofferson did not talk much between the songs, though he'd occasionally show a quick flash of crotchety wit.  "Don't you love paying lots of money for a ticket to watch an old fart blow his nose?" he said after he had to use a Kleenex between songs.  On another song he seemed to forget the final verse, so he just sang out "I'm lost, so I think I'll just quit," and abruptly ended the song.  

Also, in theory, an hour and a half of a guy strumming on an acoustic guitar with only his harmonica and his ragged vocals to keep things going might get to feel a little "all the same."  Perhaps you could even claim that, musically.  However, Kristofferson's greatest skill as a songwriter has always been as a troubadour, weaving detailed, lovely stories of losers, loneliness, drinking, religion, sex and love.

Perhaps his artful description of the hero of his song "The Pilgrim, Chapter 33" – which Kristofferson performed with the sublime confidence of a reformed sinner in the middle of this show – describes Kristofferson's music the best: "He's a walkin' contradiction: partly truth and partly fiction."

Kristofferson recognizes this contradiction, even bringing it to life with a sorrowful version of his psychologically astute look at a human's duality, "The Silver Tongued Devil and I."  The song chronicles a barroom lothario's recognition that his best chance to pick a woman up is to hide his humanity and be the expected Casanova; even though he knows that in the end it is not what either needs and dooms them both from any chance of a serious relationship.

Kristofferson can still pull out a passably sexy lover-man croon in a gorgeous breakup ballad "For the Good Times," making the audience swoon to the thought of a lost love.  And despite its slightly 70s sounding title, "Jesus Was a Capricorn" is still stunningly relevant look at hatred and intolerance in today's horribly divided world, and Kristofferson's world-weary performance just made it all the more powerful.  

He told tragic tales like "Jody and the Kid," or more upbeat fare like "Here Comes That Rainbow Again."  He celebrated the sacred depths of true love with the drop-dead gorgeous "Loving Her Was Easier (Than Anything I'll Ever Do Again)," or look at more base relationships in the seductively intimate "Help Me Make It Through the Night."  He could also be quite humorous, like in "To Beat the Devil" when a guy runs into the anti-Christ at a bar and tricks him into buying him drinks without losing his soul.  

Stripped down from Janis Joplin's more histrionic (but still damned fine) cover, "Me and Bobby McGee" returned to its roots as a sad and sweet little tale of two free spirits briefly finding a little love on the open road before inevitably losing it.  Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose, indeed.

However, his particular talent as a subtle chronicler of the everyman may have been shown off the best in one of the most casually devastating songs ever.  In "Sunday Morning Coming Down," Kristofferson inhabits the role of a lonely alcoholic who stumbles out of his home one morning, spying on the happy families and normal life going on around him and feeling completely out of place, trying to fight the urge to climb right back into the bottle.

He closed out the show with the devotional "Why Me?" a sweeping appreciation of all the gifts the good Lord has shared with him. It was a sweet lament that is even more affecting now that Kristofferson is staring down mortality than it was when he originally had a hit with the song in 1973 at the height of his popularity.

Then after a brief intermission (he literally never completely left the stage, just stood over to the side a bit) he came back to encore with a sweet cover of "Please Don't Tell Me How the Story Ends," a duet he had originally done with his ex-wife Rita Coolidge.  The slightly fatalistic lyrics again took on more power with the life history flashing before the audience's eyes and memories.  The words "Let me go on loving and believing until it's over, baby," pretty much sums up Kris Kristofferson's music and all of our lives.  

For one blessed night at the Keswick, the stories never had to end.

Jay S. Jacobs

Copyright ©2017 PopEntertainment.com. All rights reserved. Posted: January 26, 2017.