Who knew that the sound of the accordion on a Luke Haines album was exactly what I needed? The secret source. The elusive ingredient. To me, the greatest moment on Setting The Dogs On The Post Punk Postman comes at the beginning of "Ivor On The Bus" when the accordion (whose hookline brings to mind Nirvana's take on "Jesus Don't Want Me For A Sunbeam") first emerges from the speakers. The accordion is the perfect foil to Haines's vocals. Better than the kazoo. Better even than the recorder.
This was a surprise album in the sense that Beat Poetry For Survivalists appeared just a year ago. But then the man has always been prolific, especially of late. First thing you need to know is that Setting The Dogs On The Post Punk Postman is not a concept album. I would say that the Luke Haines LP it reminds me the most is Smash The System from 2016: an eclectic collection of songs representing various sides of the man.
There is madness. Lots of it. In fact, "Yes, Mr. Pumpkin" has to be heard to be believed. With its creepy hooks, lyrics worthy of Robyn Hitchcock and tasteful guitars (courtesy of Peter Buck), the song is a bizarre triumph. There is Luke's obsession with the more sinister aspects of German history ("Ex-Stasi Spy" is a catchy singalong whose video is quite brilliant). There are quirky British references (the aforementioned "Ivor on the Bus"). There are numerous other references (Andrea Dworkin, Mao Zedong, others).
Mostly, though, it is about those great songwriting chops which have not grown any dimmer with time. And while "I Just Want To Be Buried" does not quite live up to its first lines, "U-Turn Baby" is glammy and purposefully ugly, "Never Going Back To Liverpool" is melodically unimpeachable and "Landscape Gardening" could be the greatest two minutes Haines has ever come up with. Another personal favourite is the folk-ish and whimsical "When I Owned A Scarecrow" that sounds like a cross between Rock And Roll Animals and I Sometimes Dream Of Glue.
Finally, the title song has it all. Frenetic hooks, ominous whispers, "Spanish Caravan" guitar, memorable lyrics, and Luke screaming 'Epic Soundtracks!' like a man possessed. Album of the month, easily.
RECOMMENDED THIS MONTH:
Luke Haines - Setting The Dogs On The Post Punk Postman
Du Blonde - Homecoming
Godspeed You! Black Emperor - G_d's Pee AT STATE'S END!
Alan Vega - Mutator
Dinosaur Jr - Sweep It Into Space
BRUIT ≤ - The Machine Is Burning and Now Everyone Knows It Could Happen Again
A girl sitting a few stools away from me said to her date: "There are three things in life that make me happy: white wine, jogging and stand-up comedians". This happened in a cocktail bar, five or six years ago. I liked the idea. I liked the shape of it. I liked the way she was holding her Manhattan glass while saying that. What I could not accept was the essence of what she said. By that time, I had gone off white wine completely and in some Californian winery two summers ago I had to spit it out in horror and disgust. Jogging, unlike running, never made sense to me. Not even when I did it. But by far the biggest issue I had with the girl's statement was to do with stand-up comedians. I had no time for them back then, and I do not care for them now.
You see, I like jokes. I just do not like it when someone tells them to me. The idea of someone deliberately trying to make me laugh disgusts me. I wince when someone tells me about a bar and whoever walks into it.
I guess my major problem is how unnatural it all is. A person is there on the stage thinking of ways to impress me - worse, they do that with pre-written jokes and scripted facial expressions. And the person is trying so hard that you do not want to see them fail. When they do, you feel like it was you who told the bad joke. And I do not mean to say that the joke is always bad. While I have seen cringe-worthy stand-up acts which did not make me smile once, I could on occasion be reduced to wild tears of laughter. It is just that I do not think it is worth the risk.
There is no question that I could watch Black Books a hundred times and still find the whole thing hilarious beyond reason. Dylan Moran's stand-up performances, however, rarely move me (and Dylan Moran is among the very best out there). They do have good jokes worthy of any great scene with Bernard and Manny, but the situation is so contrived and artificial that even the obligatory glass of red wine cannot save it. Mind you, stand-up comedy is rarely quite as bad as someone telling you a fucking joke at the dinner table. It might actually be good - the problem is, I do not want to hear it.
Do joke, by all means - sense of humour is sometimes all that matters. Just do not make a show of it. Make it subtle, make it in a way that would feel natural. I always liked the story about how Christopher Hitchens would come to a party and not leave the house until he made a pass at everyone in the building. He did that by talking to people, charming them with the tone of his voice, by joking. He never tried to make them laugh, though. He just did.
New York was going through a bad case of blackout. The R Train we were on got stuck between 25 Street and Prospect Avenue, and the possibility of missing the Birdland concert was looming large. According to the announcer who sounded concerned to a hysterical degree, electricity in central Manhattan was off, and Brooklyn trains had to slow down. "Power outage!" she kept screaming. "Power outage!" Those were nervous times because the concert was due to start in 40 minutes and the idea of a Polish pianist performing without us was getting more and more realistic. A huge Puerto Rican lady unfolded her deckchair in the middle of the subway car, brought herself down and started talking to her kids in a sloppy and loud manner. The tone of her voice must have been natural to her and other New Yorkers, but not to us.
In the end, the train moved a little, huffed and puffed to the other side of the Hudson River, and we ran out of the subway on 28 Street. The announcer said that the train would not go any further. Manhattan, as it happened, was in the state of collapse. We saw it as we started moving towards Times Square in complete, ravenous darkness of New York. This was a sight like nothing else. Millions of people walking in every direction, as busily and purposefully as ever, just in the dark. Millions of mobile phones were flashing out like this was all part of a big show. Meanwhile, time was running out and we, too, had to run towards Times Square that stunned us like never before. Because Times Square was shining bright. While everything else was drowning in dead windows and dead restaurants, the neon lights of Times Square advertisements were on. It was as if they were powered by some black sorcery. Unable to take it all in, we turned left and stumbled upon the legendary jazz club that did not look legendary that particular night. The sign was off and you would have been forgiven if you had missed it entirely. In fact, we almost did.
There was no hustle around Birdland that day. In fact, we were fully expecting that the girl at the reception would inform us about the inevitable cancellation. Which would be devastating. The girl, however, looked impressed that we made it to the jazz club. Few people did. We got inside and saw the place almost completely empty. Out of thirty tables in the room only two were taken, and we managed to get one in the front row - right in front of the stage. The mood was precious. It was quiet, dark, respectful, and there were candles placed on every table as if awaiting a seance or a David Lynch screening. There was even a candle on the piano that Konrad Paszkudski would start playing in a minute or so. We ordered red wine, and began waiting.
The entire concert was played for the audience of seven or eight, but the Konrad Paszkudski Trio were not discouraged. In fact, it felt like this was one of the most memorable gigs of their lives. Not many people made it to Birdland that night, but, somehow, it made the experience all the more precious for those who shared it. There was a properly motionless double bass player, a slender and intricate guitarist who looked like an Italian New Yorker from 1920s, and there was Konrad Paszkudski who was moving us to tears with a quietly sensual performance. And then, right in the middle of the show, the lights were on, and suddenly, New York was back to its old self. Which was both fascinating and a little disheartening.
Later still, when the concert came to an end, he said that there was another gig in Birdland that night, and it was taking place in a different hall. Freddy Cole was performing, and we were all welcome. In fact, he would be there himself. And then he finished with the words none of us could miss: "You cannot imagine how fortunate we all are today. We are going to be seeing one of the last living jazz legends of the 20th century".
Which was how it happened that we saw Freddy Cole live in New York on a blackout night in the middle of July. The girl at the reception said yes, why not, we can use those tickets for the Freddy Cole show as there were a couple of empty tables due to the blackout. At that point, we were in a Guy Madding movie. We were not fully realising what was going on, but we entered the second hall and took the last free table as Freddy Cole was telling the audience about tonight's show. The atmosphere in the room was electric, but the electricity went off again the moment he began to sing. This was a different kind of electricity, a more potent and timeless one. Because the world may as well have come to a complete standstill when Freddy Cole was singing, just his voice, his effortless jazz croon, that filled the room the way sun-dried straw would fill the space around it after a damp night. It was simple, profound and totally out of time. For an hour of our lives, that voice was all that mattered.
We were walking home in a different New York, in a different time and a different life. The reality was muffled, and the only sound that was still making any sense was the voice of Freddy Cole still playing in our ears. The lights were on, and in the morning papers we would read about the first major New York blackout in a quarter of a century, but that particular night in July, the few stars in the sky could show us the way to our apartment.
It is always tragic to find out about the death of someone important and dear to you. But it is even more tragic to find out that this certain someone had died a year ago. Quietly, without you even noticing. Because all this time, you were lonely and you did not even know it.
Вид открывался на Карантинную гавань. Или, по крайней мере, так ее называли во времена Паустовского. А времена Паустовского - это, мне кажется, лучшие годы Одессы. Начало 20-х, Черноморская улица, Австрийский пляж. Может быть, это не лучшие годы Одессы, но никому больше не удавалось понять и передать этот город так, как это удалось Паустовскому в повести "Время больших ожиданий" (интересно, читала ли Марлен Дитрих эту книгу?) Марсельская черепица и одесский говор. Запахи весенних акаций и промытых солью палуб. Удивительно, но все это и теперь существует здесь.
И так было в то утро, когда я смотрел на Карантинную гавань и краем глаза следил за тем, чтобы собака не убежала слишком далеко. Подошла пожилая дама, одесситка из безвременных описаний Бабеля и Катаева, и сказала, что ее Себ любит мальчиков. "В каком смысле?" спросил я. Себ - это маленьких мохнатый йорк, который бегал вокруг нас и все время пытался на кого-нибудь залезть. "Он современный парень, и вполне готов наброситься на другого парня". Я сказал, что у нас девочка, но даме явно хотелось поговорить. Я был не против, тем более что это был тот самый говор, за который больше всего любишь Одессу. Он не украинский и не русский. Кажется, он с издевкой смотрит на любую национальность, которую пытаешься на него примерить.
Кто-то заговорил о кличках. О том, что в Грузии, например, закон запрещает называть домашних животных именами людей. Еще не дослушав до конца, дама начала рассказывать свою историю. Однажды кто-то рассказал ей об этом (о том, что нельзя давать собаке человеческое имя), но она не поверила. Завела тысячу лет назад собаку и назвала Евой. Грех, говорили ей, не по-христиански. И вот однажды Ева заболела, и у дамы начались проблемы со здоровьем. "У меня сильно ухудшилось зрение", сказала она, и мы посмотрели на ее старомодные очки в толстой оправе, которые в несколько раз увеличивали размер ее глаз. "У меня выпали брови и ресницы". Теперь и то, и другое было на месте, однако мы были поражены подробностями и жадно ловили другие детали. Наконец она сказала, что собака умерла, и никто не мог понять причину.
"Кошмар", сказали мы. "Ужас". Нас всех поразила неправильность этой истории, ее грустный финал. "Себ!" крикнула дама. "Себ, перестань!" Себ не слушал. Он продолжал запрыгивать на собаку в два раза больше него. И тогда мужчина, стоявший рядом со мной и вконец забывший о своей овчарке по кличке де Голль, сказал: "Себ. Но это ведь тоже человеческое имя". "Да", совершенно спокойно ответила дама, не видя в этом никакого подвоха. "Его зовут Себ. Полное имя - Себастьян". Она обвела нас взглядом, заметила наше замешательство и сказала: "Ничего. Имя-то не наше".
Мы шли домой вдоль Карантинной гавани и я думал о том, почему сначала история показалась мне такой странной. Такой... неправильной. Было в ней что-то плоское и прямолинейное, несмотря на яркие детали и южный портовый говор. Для меня она, эта история, стала правильной только в конце, после заключительной фразы дамы. Только тогда в ней появился тот легкий одесский запах, который придавал ей смысл и мог быть услышанным Паустовским на Приморском бульваре весной 1921 года.
