Album of the Month: KEN by Destroyer

Meanwhile, in a world of unicorns and tooth fairies... 

Things are like people. You have to live with them first to have an idea of what they are worth. Otherwise, you could either miss out or make a fool of yourself. Maybe both. Which is why I have always viewed it as tragic - how quickly people are losing the art of living with a record. 

Dan Bejar is a man who doesn't bother with immediacy. He dropped the notion back in 2011, amid the jazzy, narcotic heights of Kaputt, and hasn't looked back ever since. By my count, only the 'old-school', infectious "Cover From The Sun" could find its way onto Streethawk: A Seduction or, whisper it, a New Pornographers album.

Everything else doesn't care if you like it or not (a rare quality in this day and age), but reveals itself anew with each listen. Take your time, give it a glass of wine, and God knows what free-form lyrical delights ken will throw up. Melodic swirls, too. Moody undertones. Even "Sky's Grey" will grow on you, which is some feat for a song that is perfect to begin with. 

Also, I loved it that Dan Bejar was inspired by Suede's "The Wild Ones" to record this album. Apparently, the original title for one of England's greatest ballads (Bejar's words, and who would argue) was "Ken". Inspiration works in mysterious ways, but as long as the 'working on the new Oliver Twist I've been' line is so deliriously majestic... It's a line to live with, not simply to pass by.

travelling notes (xlii)

I look at Chinese tourists with bemusement. Wherever they go, they drag their Chinese bubble with them, and stay inside, and never leave it. They eat their noodles in the wine-smelling streets of Toledo. They queue to Metropolitan, then click before looking. They never walk alone and they always walk through you. They are ghosts - I like to think that so as not to get completely bored by them. 

Exit!

These days, it doesn't happen too often that a song strikes me as perfect. Good? Yes. Great? Maybe. Perfect? Don't delude yourself. In the whole of 2017, only Jarvis Cocker's "The Other Side", Peter Perrett's "Hard To Say No" and Destroyer's "Sky's Grey" would qualify. 

And Morrissey:

"Jacky's Only Happy When She's Up On The Stage" is perfect, which is all the more impressive because the sound quality is understandably poor (in fact, it pains me to imagine how good it will sound in late November).

The song itself is vicious pop music, with Morrissey relishing every moment. There is no mystery as to who Jacky is, and if you have any doubts, the final chant will leave no room for imagination. Frankly, it doesn't get much better than this.

Скетчи про Минск. Комплексы.

Есть города, которым наплевать на то, что вы о них думаете. Париж, например. Лиссабон. Вы можете любить их, вы можете их ненавидеть, но каждое лицо из вагона метро и каждый фонарный столб на пути в отель будут говорить: "Ну, это ваше дело". 

Помню одну русскую пару, которую зачем-то встретил в Версале (русские пары всегда встречаются "зачем-то"). Они кисло ходили по дворцу и кисло повторяли: "У нас, в Петергофе, лучше". Было забавно. Как забавно то, что многие всерьез воспринимают вопрос французского бармена о том, понравился ли им фирменный коктейль. На самом деле, он знает, что понравился. Он знает, что сделал его хорошо. Или ему просто все равно. 

Минск - другое дело. Этот город не уверен в себе и страшно закомплексован. Ему не наплевать на то, что вы о нем думаете. Он как мнительный музыкант - приходит домой, бросает флейту под стол и нервно читает рецензии на себя. 

Но слушая живого Кшиштофа Пендерецкого на прошлой неделе, я вдруг понимаю, что ничего подобного не услышал бы ни в одном другом городе мира. Безумный авангард его Концерта для фортепиано с оркестром бьется о стенки скромного зала и валторнами вырывается наружу. Париж проглотил бы все это в один вечер, с красным вином или без него. 

А тут...

Это мимолетное чувство, и совсем скоро оно забудется. Из-за моста появится иностранец и по-английски спросит, куда пойти в этом городе, и ты не будешь знать ответа. Пендерецкий больше не приедет в Минск. Любое лицо в вагоне метро будет расплываться немым вопросом: "Ну как? Ну как? Ну как?" Любой фонарный столб будет краснеть от смущения. Это мимолетное чувство, но мне кажется, что оно было.

Manhattan Short

Fuck it we are boring. We are no fun. God is dead. 

No, seriously, what has become of us? This year's Manhattan Short Film Festival was supposed to celebrate its 20th anniversary, yet what we got instead was a sea of mediocrity and one moment of Georgian magic. The one film in the entire programme which gave you art in its pristine, most powerful form.

The problem is, art is losing its purity (do not confuse it with innocence). These days, art has to go with a social issue. With a topical item on Euronews. With your fucking Facebook feed. So what you get in the end is an Italian entry which is technically brilliant and important but totally one-dimensional as a piece of art. Same with Syria. 

No, thank you. I don't want my art to be important. I want my art to be art.

If Manhattan Short Film Festival is indicative (and I believe it is), then 2017 is flashy and vapid. American film was trite beyond words, with an idea that only a caveman could find inspired. As was the second Spanish entry (the first one was at least, well, scary). Latvia was not art, and neither, frankly, was New Zealand. Britain was tense and well-acted, but the explanation at the end was somehow diminishing. But important, yes.  

It's ironic that Georgia was the one moment of light in those two long hours. Ironic, because the piece talks about the dying moments of the sun. It was heartfelt, and funny, and imaginative, and witty, and had more to say in those eight minutes than any boring, self-important director incapable of allegory and lacking that wonderful ability to make you surprised. 

When you are far away and looking at the moon.

travelling notes (xli)

"You are not taking that with you, are you?" One of the most sincere laughs I've ever heard came from an airport lady as she watched me place a bottle of water in a separate plastic container. Took me three seconds to realise, after which I joined her in her laugh. Oh what a world this has become. 

Tom Petty (1950-2017)

Eddie Vedder was humourless. Neil Young tried too hard. Lou Reed didn't want to be there. Sinead O'Connor got booed off stage. The host was about to fall asleep. 

Dylan's 30th Anniversary Concert of 1993 ruined most of my teenage expectations back when I finally bought the DVD. Two of those performances, however, more than made up for the overall mess and the general sense of embarrassment. One was Ron Wood's electrifying take on "Seven Days". And the other.... oh the other. 

The other performance was "License To Kill" by Tom Petty. 

The reedy stare, the golden locks, the poignant vocals, the body language, even the sneakers - it was the first time I saw him, and it was pure wonder. Christ knows how many times I rewatched that performance back in the day (because nothing beats teenage obsession), but in the years to come I would go the whole way, from 1976 onwards.

It wasn't all perfect, nor was meant to be. Tom Petty was the classic American songwriter in its genuine, brilliant, flawed sense. He invested too much in being tasteful. He often let the singles overshadow albums. He sometimes relied on good melodies at the expense of great ones. But who cares? 'Cause when he shone - well, you couldn't look away.