Album of the Month: GIANT SAND RETURNS TO VALLEY OF RAIN by Giant Sand

Howe Gelb is a daunting man, and I'm not even talking about his formidable physical appearance. It is just that whenever I look at his discography (which includes around seven hundred albums by Giant Sand, some band with an unlikely name or him on his own), I feel overwhelmed. And I tell myself - not just now. 
  
Still, he does make an occasional appearance in my life - like he did that first time, in 2003, when I bought an issue of Uncut with a free CD of Byrds covers and Byrds inspired tunes. Among quite a few classics (not least "The Little Black Egg" by The Nightcrawlers), the CD contained Giant Sand's beautifully sloppy rendition of "Change Is Now". And while I was not exactly hooked, the name of the band stuck - so that years later, when I saw a review of The Coincidentalist by Howe Gelb (of 'Giant Sand'), I knew this should be good. 

It was, too. The Coincidentalist remains an absolute classic, and "Picacho Peak" is still the best song of all time. 

And now I get to meet Howe Gelb for the third time. Technically, Giant Sand Returns to Valley of Rain is not even a new LP - it's a rerecording of the band's debut Valley of Rain from 1985. But it's not like I've heard a better album in August 2018. 

I can actually see why Howe Gelb would do this record 33 years later. This time, there is no rush (Valley of Rain took a day and a half to cut) and there is a chance to make the songs more complete... and fledged-out (I think it's a concept many bands would find interesting). Which is what you get here: something more than Frank Black-esque vocals and rudimentary, though charming, production; a rearranged song list and a song that was not part of the original LP. 

The songs are good. Loose, driving, intense, with a sloppy edge of country punk. They are more than capable of an elegant ballad (the title song is still the standout), but mostly it's "Tumble and Tear" all the way through. Speaking of which, I'm especially fond of "Barrio", "Death Dying and Channel 5" and the closing "Black Venetian Blind". Occasionally, the melodies tend to get lost in the barrage of Crazy Horse-styled guitars, but overall Valley of Rain II is a fascinating listen. Not any less so - I strongly suspect - than it was in 1985.

Howe Gelb. Daunting as hell - but I know we shall meet again.

travelling notes (lxviii)

The best part of travelling is waking up in the morning, on foreign bedsheets, and realising that you have not worked a day in your life and perhaps never will. 

Truman Capote by Henri Cartier-Bresson

My working desk is often a kitchen table, sometimes a cafe table and rarely an actual desk. But what stays, what absolutely has to be next to me when I write, is this picture of Truman Capote as taken by Henri Cartier-Bresson:

It's an iconic image, one that I first saw a month ago at the Lucca Centre of Contemporary Art. It was a lovingly compiled retrospective devoted to Cartier-Bresson's American work that, quite frankly, blew me away like no other exhibition in recent memory. From Igor Stravinsky fondling a dog to the two nuns contemplating Matisse to a small black girl in a white dress, this was black and white photography with an edge. And while I was dizzy halfway through, the image of young Truman Capote provided the final punch. 

There are many things for which I love this image, but really it's all about the way Capote stares at you. It's a look of apprehension, defiance, slight unease. There is a hint of that Kubrick stare about the whole thing but it's too elusive to grasp. 

And this image moves. Every day, it puts me into my writing mood regardless of a desk or a table I may be writing on. 

travelling notes (lxvii)

Usually, when someone tries to please you, there is a sense of gratitude, and only Pakistani vendors who sell you leather bags at a Florence market manage to annoy the hell out of you with their clumsy and inept attempts at making you happy.

The Classical

When you fall in love with an Impressionist painting, you do not have to respect it. You see the primitive olive trees of Matisse or else the straw chairs of Van Gogh, and respect is only an afterthought. Because first - there is love. You do not really have to think about the time and the sheer effort that Ingres put into his meticulous gowns of pure silk. And then, later, you delve deeper and in some dusty gallery you see the early drawings of Van Gogh and Matisse, and realise they could paint your classical still life as well as any Flem from the 16th century.

Now, suddenly, there is respect, and you may try to find some use for it.

Speaking of music, free jazz is very similar to an Impressionist painting. Albums like Coltrane's Ascension or Coleman's Science Fiction attack your senses the way Gauguin did (the latter was once called a 'virgin with savage instincts'). But then again, you will never forget that Ascension was released just one year after A Love Supreme, and Coltrane's free jazz was an experiment, a discovery. 

Ornette Coleman's story, however, is quite different, and a fascinating interview with Charles Mingus from some old issue of the New Yorker magazine featured this intriguing story. Once, during some jazz festival in the 60s, Mingus and friends pushed Coleman into the corner, gave him the saxophone and instructed him to play "Willow Weep For Me" and to play it straight. Classically. The punch line of the story was that Coleman couldn't. Not without a free interpretation, not without putting a spin on it. 

Having first read that story, I was forced to ask myself if it in any way diminished my love for the man who recorded The Shape Of Jazz To Come. And the truth is, it did not, because in art as well as every day of the week - love trumps respect.

Book review: NO GOOD DEED by John Niven

If Twitter were to die tomorrow, I wouldn't mind. In fact, I would only have one regret, and that is not being able to open John Niven's account once in a while and see his eloquent (I'm using the word loosely) commentary during Wimbledon as well as his gallant (again, loosely) tweets about Trump. Get bent, too. Interestingly, he did actually disappear from Twitter a short while ago (something to do with the Scottish language, I presume) to then rise again, very much unlike Phoenix, from the abusive ashes of social network.

Having said that, this side of his personality would not nearly be able to account for my love for John Niven the writer. Ever since the dizzying riot that was Kill Your Friends (the film was not good - sorry, John), which is one of those books you are bound to finish sooner rather than later, I've always checked letter 'N' in whatever bookstore I have visited. Admittedly, it has not been a perfect record for me. The Amateurs, for instance, never quite clicked, but I'm willing to blame it on golf. However, The Sunshine Cruise Company was gripping to the point where you could spend the whole day on the beautiful beach without ever stepping into the water. Two years prior to that, Straight White Male was a masterpiece that made me laugh and cry in equal measure. For me, still, his greatest achievement. 

John Niven is masterful at designing the sort of plot you have always (secretly or not) wished to explore. His dialogues are visual and fast-paced. His language is no-nonsense but a certain turn of the phrase will send you into fits. Speaking of which - not this time.

Somehow (and that's a big 'somehow' in this particular case), humour does not seem to be John Niven's primary concern here. Of course, there are pages that will test your limits (that diet description, for example), but overall No Good Deed is only deceptively a light read. The book it reminded me of (which is not accidental - there are obvious allusions) is Martin Amis's infamous The Information, a novel I'm very much fond of, not least because it features some of the best opening lines in postmodern literature. Both books deal with competitive friendships, and make you think of those famous words from a Morrissey song title. "We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful".

The plot is irreproachable. One day, a prominent restaurant critic, happily married with three beautiful children, walks through the streets of London thinking of his forthcoming review when he encounters a homeless man who happens to be his old college friend he used to envy. Willing to help, he invites him to his place, and it pretty much flies from there... Like I say, the plot is blistering, with just the kind of juxtaposition to keep you up during the night. And John Niven does not disappoint, not with that usual blend of heartbreak and violence. 

Having read this book a while ago now, over a couple of days in Italy, I can't stop thinking about the ending and how Niven chose to go for the inevitable rather than wilfully beautiful. But then he found beauty in the inevitable, which, come to think of it, could be the whole point of art. 

travelling notes (lxvi)

Slowly but surely I'm falling in love with long white walls in the galleries of modern art.