Again, leafing through the new copy of Careless Talk Costs Lives, I came across the double page spread of which the left hand page is a photo of Kurt and the right the simple text ‘private thoughts should remain private’. It’s really rather poignant, considering the context.

Not that I necessarily agree with the sentiment of course; personally my life would have been an emptier place had I not, for example, had chance to read The Journals of Sylvia Plath. Maybe it’s a question of time, and the respect that time implies. I don’t remember when the Plath journals were published for the first time, but I’m fairly sure it was more than a decade after her suicide. And maybe that’s not a factor at all. Maybe what’s more important is the question of who gains by the publication of such private journals: in Plath’s case it would have been, I presume the Hughes / Plath estate and I suppose that if pressed I would admit that such a thought leaves me aggrieved. Or would were it not for the fact that I picked up my copy for twenty five cents in a strange second hand bookstore in the middle of nowhere in the Smokey mountains and hence no proceeds from my own purchase went anywhere except to the wrinkled old store owner to help pay for chicken feed.

I presume in the case of the Cobain journals the proceeds will go to the Cobain estate, or in other words to Courtney… which I imagine will make a lot of people kinda unhappy, particularly if I am to believe the ‘conspiracies’ TV show I watched with mild amusement on BBC2 this morning as I ate my muesli and banana. Seems there’s a theory that Kurt was knocked off by a hit man at Courtney’s behest? Or at the record companies’? Or the CIA or aliens or whoever the hell… I dunno. I know next to nothing about the whole deal, Kurt and Nirvana being about as interesting to me as, um, well a whole host of things that just don’t really appeal much I’m afraid. (I’ve always been bad at these kinds of analogies and parallels – and end up sounding like some Black Adder loving dork).

The fact is, we are fascinated by the inner workings of those whose art we consider speaks to us on a personal level, and whilst Kurt’s never did to me I don’t deny that there are many to whom he did. Sylvia Plath did for me when I was however the hell old I was that year when I traipsed up a wet and misty Yorkshire hillside to stand numb in front a gravestone, and I know that reading her journals helped me through some harsh times and gave me both strength and inspiration. I’d also be willing to admit that in hindsight the whole episode feels slightly unseemly, but maybe that’s the way we always consider our youthful exuberances and obsessions. Personally too I find the process that leads up to any ‘finished’ artwork of as much interest as the final product. Often more so. I am intrigued by sketchbooks, diaries, notebooks, scribbles and by seeing ideas unfurl and move from formless notions into something more tangible. For others, this isn’t the case of course: Lawrence was so particular about not having any ‘unofficial’ Felt recordings see the light of day that he cut up unused session masters with scissors.

Of course I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe someone should have just set up an archive with Kurt’s journals in and allowed entry only to ‘legitimate’ scholars. Or maybe, like ET says, ‘private thoughts should remain private’ after all.

Oh, and there’s all kinds of other arguments here I know, about comodification of thought and the notion of private/public thought, but hey, I’ll leave that for another time. Or not, as the case may, and probably will, be.


posted by duke harringay at 3:27 PM

The Outsider

A new copy of Careless Talk Costs Lives was retrieved from the mailbox yesterday and as ever makes for interesting reading, particularly since ET makes the effort to define just what it is that sets CTCL apart from the ‘music press’. He figures it’s partly down to definitions and I suppose by implication then alignments to definitions. Main culprit of course is the whole ‘indie’ bag. It’s been an issue since way back in the days of the 1980s when I guess the term started to enter common use. I’m assuming that of course. Did anyone talk about ‘indie’ records in the ‘60s for example? I know the notion of independent labels existed then (probably in the ‘50s for that matter, and before then? I expect so), but ‘indie’? I dunno. Of course it didn’t always have the tainted patina it now appears to have. There was a (short period of) time when being called an ‘indie-kid’ was the epitome of coolness. At least I think it was… maybe it was just a few forlorn figures who didn’t know better. I mean, it’s possible, right? Right. But ‘indie’… Sheesh. I recall the first time I really became aware of the arguments about what it meant; it was when the first ‘Umbrella’ compilation came out. I don’t even remember what was on it, but I do remember that was when I first really became aware of the arguments that raged: was ‘indie’ short for ‘independent’ and did that then mean that Kylie was ‘indie’ because her records were on an independent label? Or did it mean a style of music, loosely defined as being jangly, shambly guitars? And who really cared anyway?

I admit that I did. I thought it was really vitally important, although naturally my own opinions tended to oscillate wildly between the two camps. I could never decide what I wanted to believe in. Part of me wanted it to be about political stances, that ‘indie’ must only ever mean independently produced records, but then a part of me also rightly wanted to know what I meant by that: independent of whom? Of what? Was Island still an ‘indie’? Or Virgin? And if not, why not? Did size really matter? And if it did, then didn’t ‘indie’ then mean a genre of music? Couldn’t it mean a new sound, a new means of defining your tastes in order to align yourself, as much being about apart from more established styles as being a part of anything else? Well, maybe, and maybe not. By inventing genres however one inevitably runs into backlashes and sees as many ship jumpers as bandwagon leapers. Recriminations are quick to appear.

Naturally musicians are always wary of such stylistic pigeonholes. They think themselves above such things, and maybe they’re right (although I doubt it). It’s all the fault of journalists, after all, out to shift units of their meagre media, and everyone knows that music journalists are just frustrated, failed musicians, don’t they? Don’t they?

Anyway, ET’s stab at redefining what he means by ‘our’ music revolves around the idea of Outsider Art. For me that phrase has always meant work produced by what mainstream society terms mentally ‘disturbed’ or ‘damaged’, but that’s just me accepting a categorisation as laid down by certain art critics and I’m all for reclaiming phrases when the cause is just and right. Of course I’ve always banged on about feeling like an Outsider, and I’ve long proclaimed myself in love with all those I have seen as Outsiders in any realm but I still find myself recoiling slightly from ET’s use of the phrase. Again my questions are the same ones I asked myself of ‘indie’ back in the mists of time. Outside of what? Outside of whom?

Outside of mainstream culture? What is mainstream culture, and where does it end? Where do you draw your (battle) lines? And it’s too lax and woolly to talk about ‘attitude’, as if that explains everything. It never did and it never will. Which probably won’t stop me wittering on about it in the future, and I dare say I will never learn to not fall into a confrontation with a kid and mutter those dreaded words ‘you have a real attitude problem’, but hey. Whoever said I was perfect? Certainly not me, despite what anyone else might think.

I’m probably just being difficult, and god knows it wouldn’t be the first time. It’s probably got a lot to do with my fear of community; a fear of the sense of belonging. The contradictions of wanting to belong and yet feeling desperate to remain detached. Which is probably not so strange, I really don’t know.

I do know, however, that whilst I feel decidedly outside of almost all of contemporary societies’ structures it does not mean I want to align myself with any micro or macro community. Like the song said: ‘I will not join a club for those who were not members of a club in the past.’

And anyway, as the sage once wrote: ‘there are only two types of music; the great and the not great.’ What more do you really need to say?


posted by duke harringay at 10:00 PM

Uh, welcome to 2003. It’s rained pretty much all day and I just watched Tod Solondz’ Happiness, which of course was a cheery thing to do. Ha ha. Yesterday we watched Back To The Future yet again because it was on the telly, and you know it’s one of those movies I can’t resist on an otherwise pretty dull afternoon. And I mean, the whole notion of time travel, isn’t it just irresistible? Then we watched, ah, Being John Malkovich again, and that kept spirits at a good level. And after that we watched The Man Who Was Not There, which, um, actually kept spirits fairly upbeat also, despite it being pretty much existential noir. Maybe that’s why it kept spirits up; I mean, noir just thrills me so much, makes me feel so darned RIGHT. I don’t know why. It just does. There are few things better than curling up with a Ross Macdonald, or to be revisiting Chandler through those lush hardbacked collected bindings of his novels that are out at the moment. They made for terrific Christmas presents, you know. Oh and Scarlet Johannson was in The Man Who Was Not There and that’s always a good thing even though she has like one character and apparently can only talk in one way, which is like totally devoid of emotion or anything at all, and of course that’s why I like her so much.

So yeah, that was New Years Eve. It was good, despite it being New Years eve, which as a rule sucks. We caught the end of a Channel 4 show about the top televisiual highlights of the year and I could relate to, um, let me think now: I could relate to none of them. But then I don’t watch TV so why was I surprised? And why was I disappointed? I don’t really know, except it seems that so much of the world disappoints me these days. I’m sure it’s my fault of course. Ah, it’s my problem; I’ll deal with it in my own way…

Anyway, speaking of reflections, and for what it’s worth, below is my list of favourite albums released in 2002, not including re-issues or records that were new to me. If I were to include those it would be a ridiculous length – 2002 of course being to a large extent my year of finally discovering the unbridled delights of west coast soft pop. Anyway, the first four are my picks in descending order; after those four the other vie for attention and the order would keep changing, so without further ado:

Lispector: Lispector
July Skies: dreaming of spires
St Etienne: Finisterre
ballboy: a guide for the daylight hours

Delgados: hate
Augie March: strange bird
Russian futurists: let's get ready to crumble
Cody: distance learning
Future Bible Heroes: eternal youth
Comet Gain: realistes
Radio 4: gotham
Vitesse: you win again, gravity!
Doves: the last broadcast
Alan Tyler: faithful
Mum: finally we are no-one
Clinic: walking with thee
Richard Buckner: Impasse

I couldn’t be bothered trimming it to a neat length of ten or however many because, ah, because I’m lazy. Or because I just didn’t think it was that important. Numbers are arbitrary anyway, don’t you think?


posted by duke harringay at 10:12 PM

Christmas + toothache + a bunch of very strong antibiotics = weak and grumpy me. Or grumpier than normal, at least. At least a new Mountain Goats album is here to help cheer me up… Thank the heavens for John Darnielle.

posted by duke harringay at 1:45 PM