Album of the Month: EXILE ON THE OUTER RING by EMA

Whenever I think of EMA, it's the glorious piano chords of "California" that pound all over me. Oh what a song it was. It had everything: fucked up beauty, tortured lyricism, raw energy. These days, I'm not too sure I can get as much out of it as I did six years ago, but I will never stop looking for her new albums. The trick was cheap, but I won't care.

The Future's Void was decent but I forgot about it in a week or two as it rarely matched the haunting single "When She Comes". This new one, though, could well be her best. 

It's not perfect, nor needs to be (nor can be, frankly, as Erika's talents just don't stretch that far), but I simply can't imagine a better album from her. Exile In The Outer Ring has every base covered. You get hypnotic grooves, you get grungy outbursts, you get those rough glimpses of utter beauty. Most importantly, however, you get an excellent set of the world's simplest melodies. "I Wanna Destroy" will work its way into your brain like sweet poison. As will "7 Years". As will "Blood And Chalk". As will the lead single "Aryan Nation". 

Elsewhere, "Receive Love" is just gorgeous and has the sort of brilliant understatement that is almost a rarity in this day and age. Lovely guitar chords, quiet vocals - it couldn't be farther away from "California". It's not a better song (what is?), but the songwriting leap is undeniable. Or is this maturity, a word you could not pronounce back in 2011. Back when she was 22 and 'did not mind dying'.

Le Sherry Butt

Talking to bartenders is a forgotten art. The questions you ask, the answers you give. The pauses. It all counts. Because God knows there is nothing more tedious than a boring conversation at the bar counter. The one which centres around John Coltrane or the pros and cons of going to Bordeaux. 

First of all, don't be yourself. The bartender will soon find out that you are just another fucking tourist anyway, and at the end of the day (or, rather, night) you do not want to be lumped with a talkative Scottish student or a gawky Russian. Being yourself at the bar counter is a nuisance, and a waste. Bartenders won't care and you will die an alcoholic. 

Secondly, don't start speaking before the second glass, you won't say anything of note anyway. If, however, the bartender tries to engage you into some dreary chat about your favourite cocktails, say something curt and meaningless, or just grin at him. In other words, do not rush it. Stay cold. Be a mystery.  

And then, when the second glass is staring at you with a glorious abandon, go for it. In a voice smoked by silence and Japanese whisky, ask the bartender if he recognises you from the third season of Twin Peaks... 

Or better still, try to find your way to a bar called Le Sherry Butt off Place de la Bastille in central Paris. The one place where the art of talking to bartenders is a waste. The sheer magic of these cocktails will shed a new light on one of Saul Bellow's brightest quotes: 'the great weight of the unspoken left them little to talk about'. 

Три минуты

В конце августа бывают дни, когда воздух застывает. Ничего не происходит. Сигарета не выдыхает дым, а люди ходят в пустоту. Жаркие, невыносимо жаркие дни. В такие дни наконец понимаешь, о чем писал Набоков на последней странице "Прозрачных вещей". 

И вот мы садимся в пыльный автобус, который трещит по швам и гремит музыкой случайного радио, и я возвращаюсь к старым местам. И выдыхаю, от удивления, но больше от счастья: старые места не меняются. Особенно в эти жаркие дни второй половины августа.

Старые места тем и любимы, что не меняются. Покрашенный столб? Другая вывеска? Переставленные ворота? Какая глупость. Ерунда. Мелочи. Важно то, что в легких тысячи воспоминаний, которыми надуваешь все вокруг. Пустые качели, высохшую реку, но особенно блеклую, желтоватую киноафишу, на которой уже ни слова.

И так до бесконечности. 

Но все-таки, случайно проходя по улице, что в трех минутах от прежней калитки прежнего дома, понимаешь удивительную вещь. Ты никогда здесь не был. То есть тебе знакомо название, ты слышал об этой улице, но в те времена она казалась другой вселенной. А теперь три минуты. Три.

И тогда глаза перестают слезиться. Все открывается: люди идут по своим делам, а сигаретный дым привычно устремляется вверх. Но только это другие люди, и это новые сигареты. А день самый обычный. Просто август - тот же ноябрь. Только жаркий. 

travelling notes (xxxviii)

Interesting how I had always been telling everyone about green Munich (green as in colours, green as in trees). Interesting - because I have only discovered this recently. Because previously I had seen it in late January - when it is cold, and snowy, and totally white.

travelling notes (xxxvii)

You spend a lot of time in Strasbourg trying to figure out whether you are in France or in Germany until the second you try tarte flambée and conclude that you are, in fact, in Alsace.

travelling notes (xxxvi)

There's nothing more charming than a Frenchman who pretends that he doesn't know English. 

travelling notes (xxxv)

In Giverny, you are restless. You are looking for a spot of absolute peace - but it feels elusive. You cannot trace it. Each time you catch it, or think you do, they come again. Sacrilegious steps. Blasphemous banter. Hours later, you leave restless, albeit in a different way. There is a fresh story brewing in your brain, and you wonder if this was it. The untraceable spot in Claude Monet's garden that made it happen. It's not geographical. It's purely a mystery.

travelling notes (xxxiv)

Whenever I'm in Vilnius, even if it's just for fifteen minutes, I get a short walk and a punishing sense that here is a city which wants to appear present but is stuck between past and future instead.

travelling notes (xxxiii)

Strange how sometimes you know exactly the image that will stay with you afterwards. And I did know, by the closed gate of a Catholic church with the breezy wind running up and down our ankles and the shadows of the trees falling across your face and the neat bunch of holy bibles stacked by the entrance. Many things will go. This never will.