Dublin, statues and Ulysses
I’ve written in the past about the way a city’s statues go some way towards revealing its soul.
And let’s face it, the whole idea of statues is pretty amazing in the first place. Imagine if we encountered a previously undiscovered sub-species of chimpanzee who left intricately carved versions of their ancestors in the places where they gathered. Viewed objectively, it’s a strange thing for an animal to do. It’s a bit like leaving huge signs all over the place with the words “We’re really scared of Death” printed on them. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it.
Still, however you explain it, there’s no question that a place reveals much about itself through its choice of statues. Certainly at the most basic level, the statue is a reassurance to us all. “Death is not the end”, it whispers, “For I am still among you”. But statues of anyone will fulfill that role. What’s revealing is our choice of exactly who we choose to call back from the dead to remain with us.
Take London for instance… it’s big enough and old enough to contain statues of people from all walks of life. Engineers, nurses, scientists, fictional cokeheads, the lot.
But mostly it’s soldiers. Lots and lots of soldiers. Men who excelled at killing people from beyond the city walls, or who were cruelly killed by people from beyond the city walls. And we invite them back to stand silently among us. One of them stands atop a pedestal so high, you can’t really see him clearly.
Here in Dublin, the situation is quite different. There’s plenty of statues to fighters, certainly, but they tend to be rebels and revolutionaries, which alters the message significantly. And they’re equalled in number by poets, musicians and radical socialists. As well as the occasional statue to the ordinary people of the city.
The stone celebration of military conquest that is so ubiquitous on the streets of London (and pretty much every city in a nation that once possessed an empire) is almost entirely absent here in Dublin. This is both a result of, and a further influence upon, the collective psyche of the place. Statues create a positive feedback loop that help solidify a culture.
June 16th
One of Dublin’s most striking statues, of course, greets you from the corner of North Earl Street as you walk up the city’s main thoroughfare — O’Connell Street. There he stands; artist and revolutionary thinker; James Joyce.
Many cities celebrate their local artists just as much as Dublin celebrates Joyce of course. But June 16th in Dublin is quite unique. I’d planned on doing the whole “Bloomsday thing” this year — y’know, donning period garb and following in the footsteps of Leopold Bloom’s Great Wander. I’d probably skip the breakfast of offal, but I figure I could make up for it with a couple of extra pints along the way. Sadly the day just crept up on me, and I realised too late that it was this week. Silly me.
To make up for it, though, I have vowed two things. Firstly to re-read Ulysses (the single greatest work of literature in the history of humanity) before June 16th next year, and secondly to make absolutely certain that appropriate clothes are hired for both myself and Citizen S in plenty of time next summer. Anyone else up for it? You’ve got a whole year to plan it. And even if you don’t feel like dressing in a turn of (last) century stylee, it’ll still be a fine day out.
There are sins or (let us call them as the world calls them) evil memories which are hidden away by man in the darkest places of the heart but they abide there and wait. He may suffer their memory to grow dim, let them be as though they had not been and all but persuade himself that they were not or at least were otherwise. Yet a chance word will call them forth suddenly and they will rise up to confront him in the most various circumstances, a vision or a dream, or while timbrel and harp soothe his senses or amid the cool silver tranquility of the evening or at the feast at midnight when he is now filled with wine. Not to insult over him will the vision come as over one that lies under her wrath, not for vengeance to cut off from the living but shrouded in the piteous vesture of the past, silent, remote, reproachful.
James Joyce | Ulysses
Or…
— That’s your glorious British navy, says the citizen, that bosses the earth. The fellows that never will be slaves, with the only hereditary chamber on the face of God’s earth and their land in the hands of a dozen gamehogs and cottonball barons. That’s the great empire they boast about of drudges and whipped serfs.
— On which the sun never rises, says Joe.
— And the tragedy of it is, says the citizen, they believe it. The unfortunate yahoos believe it.James Joyce | Ulysses
Or…
Mr. Bloom walked unheeded along his grove by saddened angels, crosses, broken pillars, family vaults, stone hopes praying with upcast eyes, old Ireland’s hearts and hands. More sensible to spend the money on some charity for the living. Pray for the repose of the soul of. Does anybody really? Plant him and have done with him. Like down a coalshoot. Then lump them together to save time. All souls’ day. Twentyseventh I’ll be at his grave. Ten shillings for the gardener. He keeps it free of weeds. Old man himself. Bent down double with his shears clipping. Near death’s door. Who passed away. Who departed this life. As if they did it of their own accord. Got the shove, all of them…
James Joyce | Ulysses
I didn’t search for those passages. Just opened three random pages and got three amazing pieces of writing. There’s not a single page in the 900 that doesn’t crackle with energy, beauty and insight.
Some Bowie for the weekend
OK, so the weekend is half done, but it’s a bank holiday over here, so I have an excuse. Anyhoo, I’m still going to post this for your delight and delectation. It’s a Bowie video. A 1997 live performance of ‘The Man Who Sold The World’, reworked radically in a drum-n-bass meets discordant guitar stylee.
I was listening to some Bowie earlier today. I had him on random play, and at one point African Night Flight found itself shuffled up next to We Prick You. The former is the gloriously weird second track from 1979’s Lodger (it’s one of his best vocal performances, which — given that it’s Bowie we’re talking about — is really saying something). The latter from 1995’s 1.Outside.
It was seamless. And I thought to myself how incredibly fortunate it is that Bowie, against all the odds, got a second wind. As a glance at this Last.fm page will show, I listen to far more of David Bowie’s music than anyone else’s. Even if you add on David Byrne’s solo stuff, Talking Heads are quite a distant second. And while Last.fm only lists the stuff I play here on my PC, I’d wager that my mp3 player has an even bigger Bowie-bias.
Sadly though, by the time I discovered Bowie (the mid-80s) he appeared to have passed his peak. Having single-handedly invented half of the sounds being made during the 1980s, he decided to take a mountain of cocaine and rest on his not inconsiderable laurels. The man fell to earth. The singles were still great (Let’s Dance, Loving The Alien, China Girl, This Is Not America, and so on). He hadn’t lost his touch for writing a great song. And that voice… well, so long as he still had that, everyone desperately wanted him to keep making great records. All of which made the sad mediocrity of the albums so much more difficult to take.
And there the story should have ended. Nic Roeg got it right.
Except he didn’t, did he? Bowie should have got fat and complacent. But instead he got creative again. And started doing unexpected things. And despite having spent the eighties lambasting him for his predictability, the music press hated him for it. How dare he not be written-off when they said he was. First came Tin Machine and The Buddha of Suburbia soundtrack. Both of which deserve some serious reappraisal, incidentally. Then Black Tie, White Noise which is no Lodger, but it is an album by someone who gives a shit again. What the hell was he up to?
None of these, though, could prepare anyone for what happened next. He only called up his old mate Eno, and went and made an album that’s just as good as anything he did in the 70s. OK… not just as good, but a truly worthy heir. Which, technically, shouldn’t have been possible. When 1.Outside came out, I felt like he’d realised that there was a whole bunch of us who’d simply been too young first time round. Listen to that album with open ears. Play it loud, give it your full attention and it opens out into something dark and thrilling and genuinely wonderful. It’s not quite Low, but it sits comfortably beside it… wrapping itself around that same corner of your soul that’s never been the same since Warszawa.
Seriously, if — like most people who appreciate genuinely good popular musics — you think Low is an extraordinary album, then do yourself a favour and play A Small Plot of Land (track 4 off 1.Outside). It’s coming from the very same source. Albeit with rather more control and self-referentiality. But I think we can forgive David Bowie the occasional knowing smile.
Most people couldn’t have returned from The Serious Moonlight Tour. But Bowie wandered far further into the wilderness than even that. He went all the way to The Glass Spider and still found his way back. Nobody else could have done that. But, of course, Bowie is the coolest man on the planet (what with being from space, or another dimension, or something), so perhaps we shouldn’t be surprised.
In fact, he’s been able to treat the world to another decade of great music. Three of his post-80s albums get regular play on my mp3 player.
And I got to experience it first hand. No, I wasn’t at Hammersmith in July 1973, but I embarked upon an epic winter hitch around the UK in pursuit of the 1.Outside tour (granted the vibe was rather different — more post-apocalyptic industrial decay / less glittery space operatic). But it was utterly incredible. Sure sure, it got a bit psychotic at times, yes that’s true, but it was one of the great defining times of my twenties (a 36-hour hitch in a blizzard with a massive speed comedown… me and Justin, we didn’t have Vietnam, or The Somme, or the beaches at Normandy… we had the Severn View Motorway Services). I may have to post the full story of that hitch one day. It’s an epic voyage into the Heart of Darkness complete with angels, demons and Cliff Fucking Richard.
The above video, so you know, is the version of The Man Who Sold The World played on that tour. Clearly you won’t get the same shivers down the spine that it gives me, but I hope you dig it.
The best thing ever…
… no really. This is what the internet is for. (via)
I know it’s easy to say this now, but I dreamt of a website very much like that a while ago. Absolutely beautiful. Requires speakers, a broadband connection and enough time to truly appreciate where you can take it.
… my life’s work, she said, is the impact that this has…
Mothership Connection
As an addendum to the last post…
HQ and Fullscreen the thang!
UPDATE 24-05-09: As Gyrus points out in the comments to the previous post, these P-Funk videos are but small parts of a larger whole. Check out The Mothership Connection for some amazing music and visuals.
Some links and a video
Here’s a round-up of some of the blogging that’s caught my eye lately…
I’ve known Merrick for about 15 years now (a fact that makes me feel terribly old… were the St. Rock’s Day Parties really that long ago!?) He’s a good enough friend that I’ve been able to overlook his psychotic hatred of donkeys. A hatred I brought to public attention here, and which may well merit a blog-post of its own some day. His sustained attacks upon one of the few champions that these poor, downtrodden animals have in their cold world of suffering, are essentially the equivalent of eating donkey steaks every day, washed down with a nice warm mug of donkey blood. Vegan? Schmeegan!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not defending Chris de Burgh as an artist. He’s really not very good, but the first couple of albums have nice tunes on, which is more than you can say for Huey Lewis. Am I right?
Anyhoo, Merrick’s writing (except on the subject of donkeys) is wonderful. And his blog really is one of the best out there. I want more people to visit it as his posts deserve nice long chunky comments threads. While most British bloggers have been having a pop at the British National Party and their leaflet campaign, Merrick’s post on the subject is the one you need to read (British jobs for Polish workers). His post on the MPs expenses brouhaha — Levelling the expenses playing field — is also excellent (and I’m not just saying that because it quotes me a couple of times) and contains the best solution I’ve heard yet regarding the controversial Second Homes Allowance. Just make MPs eligible for housing benefit in London. It is, after all, enough. Isn’t it?
JG Ballard. 1930-2009
Although it was a wee while ago, I’d like to take a moment to mark the passing of JG Ballard. He had a huge influence on my intellectual development. The Atrocity Exhibition hit me like a freight train in my first year at university. I went on an all-Ballard diet for a while and, having read pretty much everything he’d written up until that point, emerged somewhat freaked out… my dreams, ever-after, have often taken me to landscapes that could only be described as Ballardian. Or would “Ballardesque” be better? Have we established that yet? Anyway, another person who was profoundly touched by Ballard’s work is my friend Gyrus. His short piece, Ballard dies, is worth a clickthrough.
Other thoughts
Also worth your clicks are David Byrne’s musing posts on the internet, resource depletion and socialised medicine (Senigallia — You Get What You Pay For) as well as his latest post… on… well… buildings and food (The Best). OK, so it’s mostly just “food” but the line was too good to pass.
Oh, and in the spirit of my recent, Where’s Scully when you need her? post, check out Sellafield robots stealing nuclear waste. Is this the end for humanity? over at Nuclear Reaction. Run for the hills!
And here’s something for the weekend. Enjoy…
Ritchie Downey Holmes?
I like Robert Downey, Jr. I think he’s a genuinely fine actor though admittedly it’s been difficult to discern that amidst the CGI and explosions of recent movies.
I adore Sherlock Holmes. For all the flaws, they are ripping yarns and feature a truly engaging protagonist.
And although everything he’s done since has been mind-numbingly awful, I quite enjoyed Guy Ritchie’s first two feature films.
But I had real doubts that anything good could come from combining the three. If the trailer is anything to go by (and it may not be), I was sadly right about that.
Tip o’ the hat to Chicken Yoghurt.
Bleed The World
At Christmas time we should always spare a thought for those less fortunate than us. After 20 years of bleeding the world, the global financial community has fallen on hard times. These people desperately need our thoughts, prayers and lots of our money. If you have any investments or savings left, or any money left over at the end of the month please, please give generously. Merry Christmas.
View the video at: Bleed The World
(via)
Parrots, the Universe and Everything
I’ve promised to write a response to this comment on a recent entry. But I’m really under the weather at the moment, so it’ll have to wait a wee while. It’s just a bad cold (or a mild flu bug) but it’s far from conducive to coherent thought (yes, yes, how could I possibly know the difference?)
Instead I’m going to post yet another YouTube clip. This time though it’s not music, but an hour and half long lecture given by Douglas Adams a few weeks before his death. It focuses pretty much entirely on his book Last Chance To See and I’d like to thank Toby for drawing my attention to it.
Yes, in these days of mouse-click attention spans, an hour and a half is a long time. But you’d be a fool to miss this funny, sad and informative talk.
A couple of videos
I’m still feeling quite blown away by the Damo Suzuki and Makoto Kawabata set the other night, though as I’m seeing Billy Bragg tonight I suspect the radical shift in vibe will put me in a rather different headspace. So while I’m still in that spaced-out groove, I thought I’d put up a couple of videos for you lucky people. First up, something from Can. Trouble is, there’s a real dearth of decent footage of Damo Suzuki and Can out there. It goes without saying that a band this far from the mainstream didn’t make lots of slickly-produced music videos, and the live footage that exists tends to be mostly low quality, both sonically and visually. This might just give you a flavour of what they were about though…
Yes, the massive hair wearing a red jump suit is Damo.
And here’s a clip of Acid Mothers Temple playing live. Again, do bear in mind this is just a taster… something to give you an idea of what Makoto Kawabata’s guitar playing (as well as the rest of the band) is all about. If you’ve never been to see anything like this, then I need to emphasise that it’s all about being there. Experiencing it first hand. Anyways, there’s about a minute and a half of silence punctuated by spooky atmospherics. Then, at about 1:40 Makoto kicks in.
ROCK!