Кніга. "РАЙЦЭНТР" (2020) / Таня Скарынкіна.

З таго самага моманту, калі я даведаўся пра існаванне гэтай кнігі, я шукаў магчымасць яе знайсці. На паперы, у электроннай версіі, як заўгодна. Але тут, у Варшаве, яе не было. Не было, здавалася, ва ўсёй Польшчы. Тым не менш, я працягваў шукаць. Дзеля гэтай кнігі я паехаў, напрыклад, на кніжную выставу ў Беласток. Быў цёплы канец красавіка, Беласток звыкла нагадваў Гродна, і я ведаў, што мне пашанцуе. "Таня?" запытаў я. "Скарынкіна?" Але ж, вядома, ніякага "Райцэнтра" тут не было. Былі Бахарэвіч і Вежнавец, Пясецкі і Кульбак. Падавалася, што Таня Скарынкіна - гэта цалкам выдуманы персанаж. Як, дарэчы, і яе кніга. 

Тым часам, ідэя-фікс перарасла ў апантанасць, і ва ўсёй беларускай літаратуры мяне вабіў ужо адзін толькі твор. Было б цікава вывучыць прыроду гэтых дакучлівых ідэй, гэтай прымхлівай апантанасці, бо яна здараецца са мной усё часцей. Праблема вырашылася хутка і банальна, як заўсёды. У нейкі момант я зайшоў у інтэрнэт і пабачыў, што "Райцэнтр" Тані Скарынкінай можна набыць каля нашага дома ў Менску. Што і зрабіла мая сястра на наступны ж дзень. А ўжо праз тыдзень я трымаў у руках запаветную кнігу ў невыразнай сіняй вокладцы.  

"Райцэнтр" быў надрукаваны ў выдавецтве Пфляўмбаўм у 2020 годзе. Кніга атрымала другую прэмію Ежы Гедройца, саступіўшы непазбежнай аповесці Евы Вежнавец (пра якую гаворка ішла ў студзені), але абышоўшы выдатнага "Локісава" Артура Клінава і "Жэтон не метро" Андрэя Федарэнкі. "Райцэнтр" - надзвычайна простая кніга. Па сутнасці, гэта зборнік эсэ/рэпартажаў пра родны горад аўтаркі. Ёсць тут, канешне, і Менск, і Варшава, і нават Партугалія, але так ці інакш сюжэты гэтых маленькіх твораў заўсёды вяртаюцца ў Смаргонь. З добрым гумарам, з чароўнай трасянкай - у горад, дзе хочацца быць.

Бо шмат што можна знайсці ў невялікім горадзе на захадзе Беларусі. Па сутнасці, у ім нічога не адбываецца, але Таня Скарынкіна паўстае чалавекам, які можа напісаць верш пра будзённы позірк у краме і правесці ланцужок ад суседа па Вілейскай вуліцы да Холдэна Колфілда. Праз старыя фота, успаміны, нататкі і дыктафон Скарынкіна стварае кантраст, перад якім немагчыма ўстаяць. Бо тут і выпадковая сустрэча з Мулявіным, і квартэра ад Шамякіна і падабенства паміж старым фотаздымкам і карцінай Ганса Гальбэйна. Тут - гэта ў яе дома, у Смаргоні. 

Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта не толькі ўменне заўважыць Бога на панурай вуліцы і на аўтобусным прыпынку. Прыкмета добрага пісьменніка - гэта яшчэ і здольнасць прыгожа пісаць пра ежу. Аўтарка робіць гэта ў эсэ "Абараны, балваны, сліжыкі, чарнушкі", якое прасякнута шчырай любоўю да традыцыйных беларускіх страў на Куццю. Адчуваецца пах і нават смак. Але ж амплітуда інтарэсаў даволі вялікая, і ёсць тут і кіно, і насякомыя, і пятлісты аповед пра прагу паліць. Дарэчы, такім паўстае кожнае эсэ "Райцэнтра", развілістым і разгалінаваным. Гісторыя, як тая плынь, шукае і знаходзіць новыя напрамкі, але заўсёды вяртаецца да свайго пачатку. Гэта, дарэчы, тая мастацкая таямніца, пра якую неаднаразова піша і сама аўтарка.

У нейкі момант пачынаеш заўважаць, як шмат Скарынкіна ахоплівае ў гэтай кнізе. З гісторыі, з традыцый, з простых жыццёвых акалічнасцей. Яе стыль просты, але дакладны і непасрэдны. Прыстунічаюць і нерв, і гумар, і пэўная эмацыйнасць. Так, як і у кожным аповедзе сяброў, суседзей і сваякоў, кожны з каторых з вялікай ахвотай распавядае пра маленькія і вялікія гісторыі свайго жыцця. Якія, можа, і не заўсёды адпавядаюць рэчаіснасці, але якія нічога ад гэтага не губляюць. Адчуваецца, што цікаўнасць Скарынкінай шчырая, яна ўмее слухаць і знаходзіць сувязь паміж новым і старым, сучасным і мінулым. Так, што сумная безэмацыйнасць водкладкі толькі падкрэслівае мастацкую вынаходлівасць зместу.  

"Не хапае кіношнасці ў правінцыйным жыцці", піша Таня Скарынкіна ў эсэ "Жыццё і смерць казурак". Сваімі адсылкамі і цытатамі, сувязямі і ланцужкамі, яна стварае дзіўны свет, які існуе на мяжы рэальнасці і міфа. І галоўнае ў ім тое, што ў гэтым свеце, гэтым райцэнтры, хочацца быць. Ён прыцягвае нечаканым кіношным святлом і гэтай самай чароўнай правінцыйнасцю. Напэўна, з гэтай прычыны я так хацеў яго знайсці - у тым месцы, дзе яго, здавалася б, і не павінна было існаваць. Але ён тут ёсць, і быў, напэўна, увесь час. Ну і потым... "Райцэнтр" - гэта яшчэ і калекцыя цікавых гісторый.

Baxter Dury in Berlin, 29.09

Berlin may be the place to see Baxter Dury perform live. (It is a toss-up between Berlin and Paris, but I am currently leaning towards the former.) It is a city of heartache and bombast, intense disco and total alienation, sophistication and wild excesses. It is a city of many moods and complex history, and it is a place where Baxter Dury feels right at home. As he himself swears and confesses, breathes out and screams (quite orgasmically, no doubt), it is the only city that matters. And I guess this is true. When you are in Berlin, there is only Berlin. 

As I approach Columbia Theater later in the evening (there is a distinctly old-fashioned sign that I shoot in faded black and white), I notice a long queue of kids aged from 18 to 20. They all look different and yet completely the same: black T-shirts, dyed hair, New Balance sneakers. I admire their discipline and their patience, and I have a very hard time imagining that they have all come here to see Baxter Dury. They have not. As it happens, they are queueing up to get into the nearby building (Columbiahalle) for a concert of their own. 

There is no queue to the actual Columbia Theater. Even though the tickets have been sold out a while ago and the doors have stood open for half an hour. Also, those who have come to Dury's show are, ostensibly, not 18 to 20. They are middle-aged and mostly middle class, and this is their fuck-it moment, their freak-out night. Short leather skirts for women and Pretenders T-shirts for men (beers for everyone). Well, they get into it straight away, long before Baxter Dury hits the stage. 

Quite honestly, I get into it, too, as the opening act is genuinely, irresistibly good. The band is called Ttrruuces, and they sound a lot better than their name. They play a rough mix of discoed-up indie pop that comes with charisma and strong hooks. They look confident, too, and their songs have titles like "STFU" and "Sensations of Cool". The singer is so full of swagger that we all just throw our hands up in the air and admire the cheek. At one point she asks the German crowd to cancel her, and at another shouts 'Meet your new favourite band!" Well, they are not quite there yet (not with Baxter Dury performing later tonight), but they certainly have the tunes to back it all up. "Disco" is a certified banger, and "Sensations of Cool" is one of the best pop songs I've heard in a while. 

Half an hour later, Ttrruuces join us in the audience and get humbled, so charmingly and with such suave professionalism, by Mr. Dury. He arrives on stage after the elegantly dressed young bassist ('the prettiest, the most talented of us', as Baxter claims towards the end of the show), the keyboard player / backing singer in a striking bearskin hat (she looks so French that everything else that happens in Columbia Theater feels like some sort of barbarism) and the big drumming guy who will keep the perfect beat all through the night. Baxter Dury's sartorial sense is impeccable, obviously, and coupled with his expressive moves (which will get very expressive at some point), it creates a unique atmosphere that presents him as this off-kilter poet, both sensitive and low-key thuggish.

The first song he does is "Leak at the Disco", and it remains one of his greatest songwriting achievements: subtle, mysterious and utterly gripping. It is a perfect introduction, and the audience goes crazy as the intensity increases and the song breaks into its anthemic final act. Throughout the night, he will be choosing songs from nearly all of his albums (favouring his latest LP, obviously). There will be elegant, introspective stuff ("Happy Soup", "Palm Tree"), and there will be more harder-edged songs from the second part of his discography ("Slumlord", "Leon"). Berlin crowd will go insane during the relentless groove of "Miami" and will be genuinely moved during the closing, inevitable "Prince of Tears". Baxter Dury is big in Germany.

He leaves us after an hour and a half, with the intense and club-like "These Are My Friends" that could seem too straight in the face and just too fucking much - but not after a night like this. Because, and he repeats it again and again, this is Berlin and we are his friends. And there is no questioning his words. Outside, meanwhile, the kids are nowhere to be seen. Instead, there are lots of disorganised middle-aged couples, tastefully drunk and buzzing with joyful abandon. 

September Round-Up

Too late to be a Slowdive fan now. Too fucking late, and the fault is all mine. I came too late to the party, and despite the undeniable woozy charms of Souvlaki and the shoegaze brilliance of early stuff like "Avalyn II", I feel a little out of place in a world inhabited by Slowdive-loving people. everything is alive is a fine album that exists in a lovely space between shoegaze and dream pop, but catharsis is in short supply. Still, I enjoy the album, not least because I saw them perform a few of these songs at a Polish festival two months ago. They were inspired live, a little more so than in the studio.

Why is it that The National bore me to tears, and Matt Berninger's solo album from 2020 remains such a low-key triumph of bittersweet melancholia? A mystery. On the 18th of September (that is, ostensibly not on a Friday), The National released their second LP of the year. One would have been enough, but apparently it was always going to be a two-album project. Is Laugh Track any better than Two Pages of Frankenstein? Marginally, I guess, but overall this is the same old mellow, watered-down, vaguely melodic indie rock that teases but rarely delivers. I appreciate it that they try to shake things up with the closing 8-minute "Smoke Detector", and it definitely threatens to be something, but what it ultimately ends up being is a frustrating post-punk understatement. 

As for Teenage Fanclub, my expectations are so low these days that I almost count Nothing Lasts Forever as a tepid success. Overall, you know what you are going to get: three songs with the word 'light' in them and power-pop melodies which barely have any power to them. The songs are good, catchy and well-written, but also very anaemic and formulaic. That said, I might imagine a Teenage Fanclub compilation with the sweet-pounding "Self-Sedation". The title of that song, though, is painfully truthful. 

I have always been intrigued by the otherworldly songwriting of Kristin Hersh, which is both charming and a little spooky. Her latest, Clear Pond Road, is somewhat slight compared to her best work (Hips and Makers from 1994), but stuff like "Dandelion" and "Thank You, Corner Blight" is full of that tasteful, guitar-drenched lushness that has defined her sound. 

Sadly, I still do not understand what it is that I am supposed to find in Mitski. The Land Is Inhospitable and So Are We is another critically acclaimed album from this songwriter who writes extremely pretty melodies that all go to very dull places. Take the country-tinged "Heaven", for instance. Lovely as hell, and sounds absolutely amazing (the album is masterfully produced) - but when she intones 'heaven' in the chorus, she sounds beautiful more than she sounds inspired. 

Pretenders are back, and their latest album is called Relentless. These days, Pretenders are Chrissie Hynde, drummer Martin Chambers and a few non-original members who never seem to make any mess of it. Relentless is a good late-period Pretenders album, with that signature guitar sound and a number of melodies worth keeping. Ultimately, the album is saved by Hynde's personality that makes average songs sound good ("Domestic Silence") and good songs sound great ("A Love"). Quite a few ballads here, mind you, so if you do not like her mellower side (I do), you might struggle with the lengthy and slightly over-dramatic closer "I Think About You Daily".

What world are we living in if Will Butler's new album sounds a lot more exciting than Arcade Fire's recent output? But that is indeed the case. Will Butler + Sister Square is a mess, an absolutely unhinged hodgepodge of styles and moods (soulful punk, disco grooves, moody acoustic balladry, minimalist piano freak-outs). But it matters not. This is still the most entertaining record I have heard all month. For the record, Will's two previous solo albums are good, too ("Fine" remains an absolute classic). 

Songs of the month:

Bill Ryder-Jones - "This Can't Go On"

Johnny Flynn & Robert Macfarlane - "Uncanny Valley"

Pretenders - "A Love"

Teenage Fanclub - "Self-Sedation"

Will Butler + Sister Squares - "Arrow Of Time"

Фільм. "Купала" (2020) / Уладзімір Янкоўскі.

Ёсць, напэўна, мільён розных спосабаў акрэсліць розніцу паміж тэатрам і кіно. Тым не менш, лепшае, што я чуў, гучыць прыкладна так. У тэатры можна выйсці на сцэну і сказаць: "Добры дзень, мы - на Марсе". І гэта ўсё. Гледачы зразумеюць, што яны на чырвонай планеце. У кіно гэта немагчыма, бо калі ты захочаш перанесці гісторыю на Марс, спатрэбіцца пабудаваць яго. Альбо, канешне, сесці ў касмічны карабель і паляцець туды з усімі акцёрамі і здымачнай групай.

Мой галоўны закід да фільма "Купала" звязаны з яго звыштэатральнасцю. Мне дэманструюць вугал старога будынка з прыгожай лепкай і кажуць - Пецярбург. Мне паказваюць інтэр'ер вёскі-музея "Азярцо" каля Менска і кажуць - Вязынка, Вілейскі павет. Мне паказваюць яшчэ адзін інтэр'ер таго самага "Азярца" і кажуць - школа, дзе вучыўся Янка Купала. Нягледзячы на тое, што ўяўленне гледача мусіць працаваць увесь час, штучнасць рэплік і бутафорыя дэкарацый пачынае ў нейкі момант замінаць задавальненню ад прагляду стужкі. Калісьці гэтая тэатральная бутафорыя не замінала, напрыклад, "Дзікаму паляванню караля Стаха" (1979), бо ідэальна спалучалася са змрочнай, гатычнай стылістыкай рамана Караткевіча. Тут, на жаль, гэта выглядае не вельмі сур'ёзна і не дазваляе адчуць ані маштабнасць праекта, ані веліч постаці выбітнага беларускага пісьменніка.

Гісторыя ў фільма складаная. Дастаткова сказаць, што здымаўся ён на "Беларусьфільме" пры ўдзеле такіх людзей, як дызайнер і мастак Уладзімір Цэслер. Сёння такое супрацоўніцтва падаецца жартам, шалёнай фантазіяй, але калісьці (да 2020 года, напрыклад), такое сапраўды адбывалася. Магчыма было ўжываць такія словы, як "рэвалюцыя", "палітвязні", "нацыянальнае адраджэнне", "беларуская мова", "знішчаная дзяржаўнасць" і г.д. І я не кажу ўжо нават пра заклік "Жыве Беларусь!", які стварыў аднойчы той самы Янка Купала. Але так, сёння можна толькі высока ўздымаць бровы і нервова глядзець па баках. Сёння ўжо не здзіўляе той факт, што фільм забаранілі хутка пасля прэм'ернага паказу. Быў 2020 год, і рэчаіснасць змянілася. Свет змяніўся. Мінулае змянілася.

Словы і ідэі заўсёды іх пужалі. Вось і цяпер - цяжка нават уявіць той вусцішны жах, які яны, канешне, адчулі падчас кароткай размовы пра тое, што аднойчы Беларусь была часткай... Вялікага Княства Літоўскага.

"Купала" - гэта біяграфічны фільм, які пачынаецца з канца. Кожны беларус ведае трагедыю са школьных часоў: у 1942 годзе, крыху не дажыўшы да 60, Янка Купала ўпаў у лесвічны пралёт дзесятага паверха маскоўскага гатэля. Ніхто так ніколі і не высветліў дакладна, што гэта было, самагубства, няшчасны выпадак альбо НКУС. Не робяць гэтага і стваральнікі фільма, прынамсі не напрамую (замест гэтага, яны прапаноўваюць атмасферны момант з дзвярыма ў нумары паэта - не новы, але моцны і прыгожы мастацкі прыём). "Купала" - гэта аповед пісьменніка сваёй маці, напалову пераказ жыцця, напалову споведзь перад смерцю. 

Дзяцінства, першыя вершы, праца ў "Нашай Ніве", Паўлінка (а таксама "Паўлінка"), Масква і Пецярбург, жаніцьба, ціск з боку чэкістаў. Янка Купала паўстае ідэйным, яле крыху малахольным і не вельмі пераканаўчым прадстаўніком беларускай інтэлігенцыі першай паловы дваццатага стагоддзя. Ці ёсць тут нешта большае за змест школьных падручнікаў? Так, безумоўна, але асабістае жыццё Купалы падаецца схематычным (апошняя сцэна пісьменніка з Паўлінкай анічым не падмацаваная), а размовы з органамі савецкай бяспекі нагадваюць мільён падобных сцэн з іншых фільмаў і кніг. Тым не менш, менавіта апошні акт "Купалы" выклікае найбольшае эмацыйнае напружанне, і гэта не толькі спрадвечная гісторыя пра мастака і сістэму, але і наша рэчаіснасць, якая надае гэтым сцэнам дадатковае, новае вымярэнне. 

Першапачаткова фільм задумваўся як тэлесерыял, і гэта адчуваецца ў нагрувашчванні падзей, якія ў нейкі момант перастаюць свабодна дыхаць і пачынаюць узнікаць самі сабой, як непазбежная працэсія, праз коску. Музыка добрая (ці існуе ў гісторыі мелодыя больш бездакорная і бяспройгрышная, чым "Канон рэ мажор" Пахельбеля?), а рэдкія моманты мастацкай смеласці кажуць пра вялікі патэнцыял (напрыклад, сцэна з мёртвай рыбай перад пачаткам вайны). Ігра акцёраў якасная, хоць і крыху тэатральная (некаторыя персанажы фільма размяўляюць выключна слоганамі), і напрыканцы эмоцыі ўсё ж адольваюць цябе і ты нават перастаеш супраціўляцца... Але што гэта? Фільм? Змрочная эпоха? Жыццё Купалы? Ці жудасная рэчаіснасць 2023 года?

Цяжка сказаць. Добра, што гэты фільм існуе - фільм з добрым сэрцам і добрымі намерамі. Мне хацелася б сказаць - выдатны фільм, яле я не хачу ставіцца да беларускага мастацтва як да кволага пацыента, якога трэба ўвесь час падтрымліваць прыемным словам і літасцівай хлуснёй. Упэўнены, што яно заслугоўвае большага. І ўсё ж "Купалу" варта глядзець, бо гэта важны дакумент нашага часу. Бо ўрок ужо не толькі і не столькі гэты фільм, колькі сумная гісторыя вакол яго стварэння і яго жыцця.

Pete Townshend: worst to best

Pete Townshend was my first music hero, and I do not really know what else to add to it. These are his seven solo albums, ranked. 

7. The Iron Man (1989)

For years, I had been avoiding this album like plague. Slammed by critics and fans alike, it did not exactly pique my curiosity. Late eighties? A musical based on a children's story? Partially sung by people not named Pete Townshend? I cared, but I did not care enough. This time, though, I sat myself down, put my headphones on, gave it a good listen... and did not die. Mind, please, that this is a very British, heavily intoned 'fine' that will probably keep me from returning to this album in the foreseeable future. I count one great song here, the powerful and melodic "Dig" (sung by Roger Daltrey, performed by The Who), and one ridiculous embarrassment, the Nina Simone-sung "Fast Food". The rest of the LP is a listenable collection of show tunes with a watered down edge that bore and amuse and ultimately serve to remind you that Pete Townshend had not yet lost it entirely. Not by that point. 

Best song: "Dig"

6. Psychoderelict (1993)

Yet another concept album, but this one is completely insane. It features twenty-one songs which are demos, odd instrumentals, fully-fledged rock songs and bits of dialogue that seem both distracting and obnoxious. But, again, Pete Townshend had not lost it, and I honestly believe that deep down (that is, underneath the dialogue whose entire purpose is to tell a story you do not care about) some of these songs are really good. "English Boy" has an addictive groove, and Pete's melodic sensibilities shine through songs like "Early Morning Dreams" and "Now And Then". If you do choose to listen to this, my advice would be to get the music-only version (which exists, and which is probably worth your while).  

Best song: "Early Morning Dreams"

5. Who Came First (1972)

Pete Townshend's first solo album is half-baked, slapdash and inessential. But this is Pete Townshend in 1972, between Who's Next and Quadrophenia, so you will want to hear it. Who Came First features demo-quality songs from the notorious Lifehouse project as well as covers, a meandering spiritual folk song with lyrics by Townshend's guru Meher Baba, and even a beautiful country song from Ronnie Lane (see further). A mess, obviously, but a mess from one of the greatest ever songwriters. Highlights include an early version of "Pure And Easy", pretty ballads "Content" and "Sheraton Gibson" and the aforementioned "Evolution" by Ronnie Lane. A good album - but unfocused.  

Best song: "Sheraton Gibson"

4. White City (1985)

Year being 1985, White City could be an affront to good taste. Not so. Instead, it is a very good album that easily beats contemporary efforts by the likes of Paul McCartney, Bob Dylan, Ray Davies, Mick Jagger and Keith Richards. While not a classic by any stretch of the imagination, White City puts 80s drums and synthesizers to good use. "Give Blood" is a powerful opener, "Brilliant Blues" is a classic Pete Townshend ballad, "Crashing By Design" is seriously catchy and the title song features some great guitar playing from David Gilmour (who actually co-wrote it). Yes, "I Am Secure" is bland and nondescript, and "Come To Mama" is a bloodless closer, but this is the last essential Pete Townshend-related album. And that has to count for something. 

Best song: "Brilliant Blues"

3. Rough Mix / with Ronnie Lane (1977)

A common mistake when reviewing music is to equate the quality of songs with the fun that the artists had while recording them. Rough Mix, with its stellar cast of musicians (besides Pete Townshend and Ronnie Lane, you get people like Charlie Watts, Eric Clapton and John Entwistle), must have been a hoot to record. It certainly feels that way. But - how about the songs? On the face of it, nothing special: Rough Mix is a very quiet, cozy, rootsy affair. Further listens, however, reveal that it is more than that. Ronnie Lane contributes some of his prettiest folk-pop melodies ever (especially "Annie", which tugs at all my heartstrings) and Pete Townshend offers the catchy "Misunderstood", the heavily orchestrated epic "Street In The City" and the brilliant anthem "Heart To Hang Onto". Yes, there is stuff which was just fun to perform ("My Baby Gives It Away", "Catmelody", title song) - but in this particular case, it only adds to the overall charm.

Best song: "Annie"

2. All The Best Cowboys Have Chinese Eyes (1982)

Considering that the very same year The Who released the sorry It's Hard affair, we can safely state that Pete Townshend kept his best material for himself. Apparently, All The Best Cowboys... is a concept of sorts, but following musical concepts at that point in the 20th century is completely pointless. Instead, let's focus on the songs. There are eleven of them (ten plus a very pretty interlude), and apart from the somewhat faceless "Stardom In Action" and "Somebody Saved Me" (still good), everything works. The heartfelt ballad "The Sea Refuses No Water", the insanely fast-paced rocker "Communication", the power pop classic "Slit Skirts" (surely one of Townshend's best songs ever). Even "North Country Girl", Pete's unlikely update of the folk perennial, is great. 

Best song: "Slit Skirts"

1. Empty Glass (1980)

Two things I need to clarify first. Number one: I only marginally prefer Empty Glass to Chinese Cowboys. Number two: there is a long-held opinion that The Who's Face Dances from 1981 is crap, and Pete Townshend's Empty Glass is great. Not true. Both are great (as far as I'm concerned, Face Dances is one of the most unjustly maligned albums in rock music). Now on to Empty Glass, which Townshend himself recognises as a classic Who album that never came to be. While I can of course easily imagine Roger Daltrey having a good go at stuff like "Rough Boys" and "A Little Is Enough" (to say nothing of "Jools and Jim", the angry, punkish putdown of bad journalism), I am more than happy to have Pete's gentler, subtler vocal delivery. Besides the aforementioned, classics include the multi-part title song, the shamelessly poppy "Let My Love Open The Door" and the disarmingly charming "Keep On Working". In fact, only a couple of generic (if fun) and over-spiritual (if addictive) moments keep Empty Glass from being worthy of The Who's very best. 

Best song: "A Little Is Enough"

Polish notes (August '23)

As we drive into Łódź late in the evening, on a glum Sunday, Tricky starts playing one of his recent songs. "Take It There" is the perfect soundtrack for the city whose unnerving charm has long become legendary. And it is all true. All of it. The abandoned buildings with punctured eyes, the sinister looks of drunk teenagers, the trams that move in disgusting slow-motion, the dim Sunday shops that look permanently closed. "How far are we from the centre?" I ask a friend. The friend grins: "This is the centre". Indeed. Behind it all, however, there is a rich history of Polish film-making (Wajda, Munk, Kieslowski and Polanski all studied here) that barely even teases your senses. Increasingly, though, as we trudge through the twilight fog, I start to notice the small details: a girl in pink, a red glimmer in an abandoned window, a bizarre similarity between the main square and Piazza San Marco in Venice. The square in Łódź, however, is broken, dismantled, permanently taken apart. David Lynch's favourite city, no less.

Before Łódź, however, there is the OFF Festival in Katowice and a threat of rain. A resourceful young man at the entrance is shouting something about the quality of his ponchos and the impending showers. The ponchos, the young man insists through his roaring mouthpiece, could save our lives. Indeed: the forecast is implacable. Still, it does not prevent desperate festival-goers, Silesians and tourists alike, from getting in. The OFF Festival is one of the biggest festivals in Poland, and this year's line-up is a sizzling proposition. While I have not yet caught on to the brilliance of Jockstrap and King Krule, I am here for Spiritualized and Slowdive. And it is all worth it. The crowd is manageable, and the toilets do not make you lose hope in humanity. Most importantly, though, there is a lot of great music. Via electrifying American gospel, via Brazilian folk from Belarus, via The Strokes' Is This It performed in its entirety by a very capable Polish band, we will all get to see the pixie-like figure of Slowdive's Rachel Goswell who will be as amazed as everyone else: because it will be long after midnight, and the rain will not have started.

The sad thing about Belarusian Kupalauski Theatre is that they do not have a venue of their own. This time, in mid-August, they are performing in an experimental music theatre in the north of Warsaw. Worse, the said theatre is located inside a shopping mall, by a local multiplex cinema. Do we really care, though, as we walk through a very long hall and enter a rather small room filled to the brim with people who look intelligent, hungry and somewhat ill at ease (among them: artists, journalists, book publishers, politicians). We are all here to see the new stage production by this great theatre-in-exile: "Geese-People-Swans" by Alhierd Baharevich. It is, in fact, an adaptation of the second part of Baharevich's celebrated novel Dogs of Europe, and they do it faithfully, with slight changes that seem warranted and to the point (the bizarre sci-fi ending, for instance, is all but gone; the tinkering with dates also works). As the actors walk on to the stage for the final bow, everyone in the room is in tears. Still hungry, still intelligent - but no longer ill at ease. 

The National Museum in Warsaw is currently holding an exhibition of art  which it has acquired over the last couple of years. The room that I am most interested in is, of course, the room with a dozen or so Marc Chagall's painting. This is actually my second time at the exhibition: I am starting to fall in love with Chagall as I get older. All of a sudden, I see great warmth in the colours and elaborate child-like lines. The highlight, to me, is My Life Between Vitebsk and Paris from 1954. In the center of the picture, in the hands of those unfading lovers of Chagall (one of whom has the eyes of the artist, inevitably), there is a bouquet of flowers dividing the canvas into two halves. Above, there is Paris with its breathtaking rooftops and the obligatory steel tower. Below, there is Vitebsk, which I have never been to, but which I recognise at a glance.

Bielany, while not exactly the most mind-blowing district in Warsaw, is still worth a visit. Old Bielany in particular has two streets that are among my favourite places in the city: Płatnicza and Kleczewska. Quaint old architecture, cobblestoned road, gas lanterns, rose gardens and a bakery called Dej (one of the best in Warsaw). 

Album of the Month (sort of): INTIMISM by Nicky Wire

Since I do not really feel like reviewing anything released this month (PiL's album was merely decent, Neil Young's LP was an archival release and The Hives still suck), we should absolutely talk about the new album by Nicky Wire that came out in July.   

Apparently, Nicky Wire is a different person these days. He is full of love and warmth and simple human happiness. He is not calling Glastonbury a 'shithole' and does not want to convert you to socialism anymore. He has let it all go, and all of a sudden, he has some of this year's best melodies to share. Which, in a somewhat odd twist, he has chosen to release very quietly, back in early July, via Bandcamp. 

To give you an idea of just how strong the songwriting on INTIMISM is, let me point you towards the biggest lyrical line of the album. The said lyric seems clumsy on paper and comes during the chorus of "Keeper of the Flame". It goes like this:

I'm not a socialist anymore
The social bit leaves me cold.

The sense of these words notwithstanding (not entirely truthful, according to the man himself), Nicky Wire makes the line sing. It sounds infectious, anthemic and unapologetically well-written. This is the imperious form that Nicky Wire is in on this album. And I have never even been underwhelmed by I Killed The Zeitgeist, his first solo album from 2006. 

The album features twelve new songs, two of which are tasteful free jazz freak-outs and ten are instant indie-rock classics. The former have titles "Migrane No.1" and "Migraine No.2" and display Nicky's fascination with Ornette Coleman. The latter are somewhat confusing in their consistent brilliance. They sound like a man repressed for years was finally able to exorcise his demons, and said demons turned out to be irresistible pop creations (not unlike what happened to his musical partner James Dean Bradfield in 2006). I do not believe there is any point in talking about individual songs as there are no particular dips in quality. However, the best moments include the lush piano section at the end of "You Wear Your Broken Heart Like A Dress", the soaring, strings-drenched chorus of "A Perfect Place To Grow" and the blissful entirety of "White Musk".

Imagine a full album of songs as good as "Break My Heart Slowly". This is what you get here, only the sound if fuller, the production is more elaborate and the performances contain a lot more oomph and conviction. I hear there is a new Manic Street Preachers album on the way... If this is what we will have to deal with, count me in.