Album of the Month: A SHORT HISTORY OF DECAY by John Murry

Obscurity doesn't make you a great artist. Obscurity doesn't make you anything. There are works of art, however, whose greatness is enhanced by it. A Short History Of Decay is one such work of art, and an album as good as anything I've heard all year. 

However, the temptation to go for the latest album by Arcade Fire was almost unbearable. Just to fuck with the system and a bunch of one-dimensional minds - living inside their heads, unable to grasp the tuneful, emotional depth of "We Don't Deserve Love".

John Murry, for his part, looks like a herion addict and sounds like one. 

He is terminally sincere, too, not least because he was a herion addict. The horrible thing nearly killed him, and (in a twist of irony or, rather, black humour) was directly responsible for the songwriting masterpiece that was 2012's The Graceless Age. "Little Colored Balloons". "If I'm To Blame". "Southern Sky". That stuff was tortured, transcendental. 

A Short History Of Decay is almost as good. The mood is certainly similar - fragile and heavy, just like heroin addiction. However (and we have seen countless examples of this), mood alone wouldn't do it. You need the songs. You need the tunes. And Christ does John Murry have them. 

They shine through the dark lyrics dripping with loss and despair, and you won't hear a song more beautiful than "Miss Magdalene" any time soon. He rips it up, too, in a few places, but decay was never supposed to be smooth. It was meant to be desperate. Obscure. And great - but that's provided that you are one of the few to really get it.

Ten things about the new Lana Del Rey album

1. Never trust a man who has dollar signs in his name.

2. There is no reason, no reason at all, why a Lana Del Rey album should go for more than 40 minutes.

3. The singles "Lust For Life", "Summer Bummer" and "Groupie Love" are all rubbish.

4. No one should read anything into her smile because her smile is just as meaningful as her pout.

5. Lana has three types of songs: very good, trash and average (50% of her songs).

6. As if Ultraviolence wasn't good enough, she calls her new album Lust For Life and name drops Tropic Of Cancer in a song called "Tomorrow Never Came".

7. This album has four or five good songs - which is the best she has ever done.

8. The brief moment of magic is her vocal hook in “Beautiful People Beautiful Problems”.

9. Lana Del Rey remains one of the easiest targets for a scathing review and she herself is to blame.

10. Never trust a man who has dollar signs in his name.

Скетчи про Минск. Sweet & Sour.

Во всех городах, где я бываю, я захожу в бар и заказываю Old Fashioned. Таких баров может быть несколько, но один должен быть обязательно. И если я не наткнусь на него по дороге на концерт, в галерею или бог знает куда еще, то я открываю карту и начинаю искать... 

Так, я увидел случайную дверь бара у римского Коллизея и намеренно пришел в декадентский Foxtrot вдали от центра Лиссабона. 

Были провалы. В Толедо я просил приготовить Old Fashioned, но каждый бармен предлагал мне Mojito Cocktail. Я настаивал на Old Fashioned, но всякий раз уходил ни с чем. В ирландском пабе я протянул свой телефон молодому человеку за стойкой и попросил написать мне названия баров с лучшими барменами Толедо. Он написал. Я зашел в каждый из них, но лучшие бармены Толедо только растерянно улыбались.

Все началось с Минска. Все началось с бара под названием Sweet & Sour. И еще с того момента, как Дон Дрейпер посмотрел на пустой стакан в начале первого эпизода Mad Men. Но это уже не так важно. Как не важно то, что затем Дон попросил повторить заказ.

Sweet & Sour. Мимо заполненного, пустого Cafe de Paris. Мимо извечной пушки, на которой мы сидели во время школьных экскурсий. Мимо однообразных террас. В серую, полуоткрытую дверь. 

Вне зависимости от альбома Сонни Роллинза или черно-белой роли Майкла Кейна, от моего настроения или количества Old Fashioned (хотя стоит помнить фразу Хитченса про напитки с джином: "одного бокала мало, а трех слишком много"). Вне зависимости от того, кто из четырех барменов делает твой коктейль (одного из которых я полюбил еще больше после того, как он признался в безразличии к Breaking Bad). Здесь хорошо писать, говорить, быть одному. Здесь бесконечное число историй. Сюда хорошо возвращаться.

Если я навсегда уеду из Минска, мне будет не хватать этого места. Недавно я особенно ясно это понял во львовском speakeasy баре Libraria. Здесь хорошо. Здесь книжный интерьер в стиле первой половины прошлого века, здесь вечерами играют живой джаз, а какой-нибудь потерянный шотландец долго листает меню в поисках нужного коктейля и затем неуверенным пальцем указывает на Breakfast with Sophie. 

Но это все не то. Этого мало. И дело не в скучном, пресном Old Fashioned, который тут делают с чопорной медлительностью. И не в бездушном втором этаже. Дело в том, что... это просто бар. Для туристов. Для всех.

Назовите любой бар, любой ресторан Минска - все это есть в Мельбурне или Праге, только лучше. Но ни в Мельбурне, ни в Праге нет Sweet & Sour. Это не клуб Diogenes из рассказов Конан Дойля, но все же это больше, чем бокал Aperol Spritz в шортах (в которых сюда обычно не пускают). Случайные люди бывают здесь только раз в жизни. Или не бывают никогда. Думаю, это единственное место в Минске, чью атмосферу я больше никогда и нигде не встречал. 

В Sweet & Sour не делают лучший в мире Old Fashioned, и если бы мне пришлось выбирать, я выбрал бы тот, что делают в баре 1862 в Мадриде... Но если я спрошу себя, зачем устроил все это. Зачем в полночь захожу в Opium Bar в Бате, зачем пытаюсь отыскать полторы комнаты Иосифа Бродского в дождливом Петербурге. Зачем. Я всякий раз говорю себе, что пытаюсь найти вкус. Тот самый, который впервые нашел в минском баре Sweet & Sour. 

The Return

Back when I first watched Twin Peaks, about ten years ago, I got the sense that the world Lynch created was absurd, zany, slightly demented. That was the world of Twin Peaks. The world of log ladies and countless doughnuts.

The sense that I'm getting now is that the world outside Twin Peaks is totally insane. And Twin Peaks is okay. It has survived. Twin Peaks appears to be an island of comfortable illusion that is the one place in the world where you want to find yourself. Never mind Good Coop.

Things have changed, apparently.

travelling notes (xxxii)

It could be one of this world's great wonders - walking into an art gallery where you don't recognise a single artist. It's not that you come by an obscure picture by Francisco Goya. It's not the routinely immaculate grapes from a Dutch still life. Rather, it's St. Jerome's expression on some long-forgotten Spanish painting from the 17th century that looks more meaningful than it has ever done. Unburdened by tourists, unburdened by Gods. 

travelling notes (xxxi)

Lviv is a beautiful mess. It's striking but it's held back by the Soviet past whose ghosts are haunting the faces and the signs. Lviv is like the stomach of a cultured pigeon. Jumbled, unscrupulous, fascinating. A place that doesn't quite show you the beauty but, instead, chooses to throw it up, in ridiculous quantities, all over your travelling shoes.

Personal Shopper

I don't think I will see a much better film this year. 

The script is beautifully nuanced. The pacing is perfect. Kristen Stewart has come good. Paris looks intense. And, most importantly, Personal Shopper has two endings. 

One is right. One, however, is good.  

When Maureen is still in Paris, there is a conversation in the garden that segues into that inevitable mystery scene. Maureen is confronted by the ghost of her dead brother. She, however, does not see him, and perceives the broken pieces as nothing more than, well, a bunch of broken pieces. She does not recognise them as a sign she'd been waiting for all this time... Following the conversation in the garden, this should do it. She got over it. She has her life back. 

This makes sense. This is the right ending. It ticks the box you expect to be ticked. 

Thankfully, Personal Shopper doesn't end there. Instead, Maureen travels to Oman to see her boyfriend. Here, she is yet again confronted by the supernatural, and this time it's a glass hanging in the air. Conjuring up the old practice of table-turning, she asks questions about her brother (the invisible entity could well be him) and the ghost gives her answers that do not necessarily add up. Which is when Maureen is reduced to asking "Is it just me?" A brief pause follows. Then a single knock.    

This may not be the right ending and it may fail to tick your personal box, but Christ it's good. And in life as well as in art, you should always take what is good over what is right. 

travelling notes (xxx)

A film watched for the first time in the dim light of your hotel room is a film you will never forget.