Literary & musical retrospective 2010

This time I really will keep it brief, and hopefully focussed less on the items and more on the process of reading & listening itself. Truthfully, this year I had half a mind to not bother with this retrospective, but I suppose they have their uses. Giving up is probably akin to admitting that time has won, and that there's no hope in keeping track where it all goes. But that's a battle I've always intended to win, and so here we are!

If you've stuck around for long enough, you might remember that '09 was a pretty poor year on both cultural fronts, for a variety of reasons but primarily because things weren't quite clear upstairs. I can't say that things are much better now, but I seem to have accepted this as a state of quasi-normalcy. So I did fare a bit better this year, though nowhere near the heights during my undergraduate years, steeped as they were in obsession and free time. On reflection, it appears that I only had my first serious taste of Philip Roth, The Go-Betweens and The Triffids this year, all three now crucial components of my cultural and mental makeup. (It really is surprising that all that happened this year; I told you these retrospectives were useful!) There isn't anything coherent tying these fellows together ('cept Quality, of course), but that is to be expected. As always, there were other first-timers too, but perhaps one sign of things being not as strong as years past is that for these, the signal is extremely weak: yes, I did read Old School, but I don't think I can say anything more about it. (And yet somehow I did write a post about it earlier this year...) I might even have tried some Pynchon, but found it utterly incomprehensible. I have enough trouble getting through my many unlistened Tom Waits albums, so somehow I doubt I'll be revisiting him anytime soon.

Given the addition of the GB's and Triffids to my musical map, in the uppermost echelon of my preferred artists I now have a pretty impressive triumvirate of Australians (the third's Nick Cave, of course!). I wrote a stirring, gripping piece about counterlives recently, where I asked what good it all was. Obviously I should've noted that at the very least, this life has allowed me private access to a very worthy collection of music. If we say that the '60s were for the English, the '70s for the Americans, it's clear where the '80s belonged. (Please don't think about that too long, lest you find innumerable counterexamples that completely destroy the careful symmetry of the sentence.) Who knows where the real gold of the '90s is to be found, then? At the very least, it's nice to think that these artists partially validate the mythos of the Outsider. Given only snapshots of trends in rock music overseas, and a careful sample of "historic" records - I think Dylan is a common favourite of all three, and probably Lou Reed - they managed to create a personal, unique response to the world. So maybe isolation is necessary after all; I've conjectured about many modern artists being overburdened with music, to the point where every note sounds like a deliberate homage to something from the past. They should all clearly relocate to New Caledonia.

Here seems an appropriate venue to ponder aloud the question of why one bothers reading or listening in the first place. "To understand yourself" has a nice ring to it, and seems plausible on first consideration. And while that may be the goal we should strive towards, I feel as though my use of the arts is much less noble. At times it feels as though I'm amassing the greatest ever arsenal of quotes, turns of phrase, and melodies so as to wear as a proud badge to tell people of my innate greatness. While I'm at it, I may as well admit that I imagine some fair maiden swooning at the prospect of finding such a fine catch. ("Come to think of it, yes, my eyes are desert sand!") I suppose there's a bit of this confusion in everyone who takes the arts seriously, at least when you're young. The problem with music, much more than books, is that it's so easy to consume, or so one thinks: just hit play and sit quiet for three quarters of an hour. Consequently, it's really easy to give muddled goals more chances than they deserve to take over. In reality, of course, music isn't that easy, at least not when it's worthy of serious thought. I think this harsh reality is what sometimes thrashes against the childlike hunger to devour everything, an impossible ideal that perhaps seems most within reach when it comes to music. After all, one only need sit quiet for the rest of one's existence; not too shabby if it means eternal salvation!

I suppose we also look to the arts to teach us things about life. I've spoken about songs enough throughout the year - suffice to say my romantic repertoire grows stronger by the hour - but books were useful too. It's a stretch to say I was "taught" anything, but at least I managed to see the potentially troubling conclusion to my current plan for dealing with romance. Zuckerman's stories from Roth's Exit Ghost may be the saddest I've read in a long time, and wonderfully capture the laughable, beyond-pathetic nature of the heart, but how we are bound to it anyway. Zuckerman is commanded by the "ghost" of his desire, and sees no way of proceeding but to write his fantasies down. Despite his complete consciousness as to the impossibility of it all...somewhere, he feels they may become reality yet. (Reminds you of another talented modern author's work, perhaps...?) This odd distinction between fiction and reality, which sometimes feels like it can be breached - been there, Nathan! The relentless pursuit of this barrier, no matter how obviously foolish the task appears - (oh God...) been there! The book really did make me feel I ought to be around authors more, because they're the only ones capable of even contemplating the same degrees of madness that pass through my mind everyday. I don't know if Roth wrote from experience or imagination here; probably the latter. But I'm sure he'd be happy to know it is possible for it to be the former.

Next year? I intend to use the good response to '09 to leap into new and strange waters. That means all the Ballard and Dead Can Dance money can buy. And thanks to that blasted Hornby, all the Haydn and Dickens I can stomach, I'm sure.

When going through Nick Hornby's articles on books he's bought/read (which are significantly more entertaining than they sound), it struck me that I can't actually think of anyone else who has written so endearingly yet accessibly about the form, in particular about what is sometimes classified as "serious" fiction. While critical barriers of objectivity have been significantly demolished in music, with books the analysis is almost always of an academic bent (if not, it's often devoid of information). There is of course a very real need for such serious and semi-academic analysis, but so too is there one for Hornby's relaxed style of writing. I don't have that much else to say, except that I am glad to have found out about these articles, else I would have surely have him pegged as yet another pop-music obsessive (a charming one, mind!). I think my own shying away from books in this blog could be in part because I've felt ill-equipped in terms of the language needed to express my reactions about them. Hornby has made me reconsider that stance: perhaps unfortunately for you, dear reader! Stay tuned, I suppose.

Tangentially, before reading his articles, I had a vague idea that went something like: perhaps the place of classical music in the scheme of things is like the place of Dickens. Something you maybe dabble with when you're young, and then all but forget until (possibly) old age sets in. But his piece on Great Expectations makes me half-tempted to buy a fresh copy of that classic and re-read some 15 years on. Although, I should probably get through Anna Karenina first. And given this new uncertainty, lord knows what future awaits for all those Haydn symphonies...

Exit ghost

The last note struck, confirming succinctly that the moment had arrived. The past is now totally at rest, and time cannot be undone: the spirit newly exited is now beyond communication. This feeling isn't sadness, but emptiness: it is one of the moments (believe me, they are blessedly uncommon) where the prospect of having it all end does not seem so bad, because living with this seems an impossible weight to bear. So many years of collected memory and feeling are now extricated from inside me, and no amount of imagination lets me see what will take their place.

What makes me think there is a chance of pulling through, though? It's the tranquility that allows these thoughts to exist in the first place. This is the same forge from which I shall have to build another life. We will have to wait and see.

What she said

They were just words, after all, but words delivered with such a level of measured precision that you knew there was an abyss lying beneath. Ever so often these lyrics would be accentuated by a sigh, a purse of the lips, and a gaze into the empty distance. "Play one of the early numbers!", one might be tempted to say, imploringly, but there was no turning back. I knew this leaf would not, could not be turned; the singer could only hum the lines she was dealt. So I had to listen to that melody as it evoked a strange mix of nostalgia, sorrow, and helplessness in me. On consideration, one could not help but wonder that maybe - maybe - this is what the saddest song in the world sounds like.

It's decided, then. One by one, I shall have to burn them all.

I keep mine hidden

I largely value the quiet privacy my thoughts are allowed in this forum, but sometimes it can feel solipsistic. Especially when I feel like making bold statements, like the following: surely there can't be more than three other people in this world with as vast a cache of emotion, unopened and unknown to all? I rather doubt anyone's going to challenge this, so let's assume it as if for surety (it'll make things easier, believe me). It has its positives, of course. I can nod knowingly to a wide range of songs, checking them off mentally in my head. ("Yep, that's good ol' index D, section 1 of emotion repository right there!".) But sometimes one must wonder where this trepidation of expression comes from. It also leads me to wonder whether it will hold me in good stead. I don't particularly mind pontificating as usual on these items, coming up with all manner of theory and aphorism. But screw all that. At some point it seems like coming up a fitting turn of phrase is seen as a substitute for actually acting upon these issues. It's easy to convince yourself that you're making progress when you're both the patient and the analyst. The following is as good as I can do in this sitting: there's too much going on inside, lad. If you let it all keep burning away till the end of time, things can only get worse from here. At the very least, expressing and being embarrassed convinces you that you're real, and not a work of fiction.

The counterlife

Perhaps the only good thing about living all these counterlives, and having to go through the pain and confusion of transiting between them, is that it offers a sense of perspective. It's pretty serious pain and confusion, mind, so it's hardly equitable perspective. Nonetheless, during my latest transition between lives, I have become quite convinced about the impermanence of it all, a truth that I've always accepted but never experienced. The uncertainty and instability of one life seems rather quaint when one steps into another. And it's always the case that the current one seems the most real. I once believed this truth would guide me through life more confident and less encumbered. But of course I was wrong. Impermanence is the last thing a counterlife needs. I'm sure there is magic in living through changes, and watching the fabric of a life be unravelled into something better. Yet when it happens when you're not around to witness it, it feels like the worst thing in the world. At least if one could close the door for good and banish things to the past, there would be some hope of moving on. For me, though, the life is being dismantled before my eyes, piece by piece, until the only thing left is me. If this is how it must turn out in the end, I do not know why it bothered to happen at all.

My avowed distrust of the internet feels perennial, but likely its roots extend only five years ago. Special ire has been saved for its impact on music, which in hindsight should have been balanced more with discussion of the positives it has had. Anyhow, the topic today is distraction. Even a proto-Luddite as yours truly has problems maintaining focus when browsing. Every article, every website is merely an obstacle that prevents me from reading the next thing on my queue. It speaks in part to the banality of most of it - were it really deep and serious, I'd like to think I'd zone in and concentrate on it. But there are several instances when the material is, in objective terms, interesting, and yet is still met with apathy after a few minutes. I remember reading an article on the subject that mentioned the perennial sense of something better being around the corner. Why waste time reading/watching this nonsense when I'm missing out on what I really want to be doing? Of course it ultimately amounts to nought, and one feels permanently dissatisfied. I find this distraction most prominent in my morning news scan - I think the feeling is that there are so many things I want to read, and I need to cram them all into a half hour. On days like this, it feels horrible having gone through six or seven sites but having spent maybe a couple of minutes on each. Lack of time is cited as a common problem, but a better solution must be devoting time to what makes one really truly tick. A mild retraining of the brain is probably what is needed, but that's no easy feat. I would venture to suggest that another strategy, unpopular though it may be, is finding other ways of occupying time. As always, the intent is there, but the action is as ever solely missing.

Whatever meaning her face once carried, it has long since disintegrated over days & nights in the tropics. It once served as testament to a genuine feeling of affection, which sadly grew stronger as it became clearer that it would remain unrequited. Now when I am greeted by her vision, it is little more than a sad trick I attempt to pull on the cosmos, some confused attempt to convince it that I have not been left out of the art of love. Behold my heart!, I say: I too have known these feelings! But it is of course a lie. This image I conjure at my fancy is just an empty phantom, one desperate to unbind itself from my spell of summon. I hope that one day its wish is granted, for both of our sake's; but I first need to come to grips with the reasons for this malady. Among other things, I need to accept that my actions sometimes work as they are intended to, as with my strategy of isolationism.

Unsurprisingly for a band whose lead songwriter can safely claim spiritual lineage from the Dylan/Cohen family, for every of the Triffids' moments of obvious brilliance (see my previous song list) there is a often a late bloomer. I hadn't seriously pondered on any of these tracks, and one by one they revealed themselves in a moment of complete surprise. A pleasant experience: it's so easy to forget a crucial lyric that's just over the horizon, and when it arrives, the reaction is purely visceral. It's like the first listen all over again!

As for their whitewash of the last two couple of lists, the phenomenon is akin to what I experienced with the Doors, all those years ago. There's a superficial similarity in the singers' tenor, of course, and you might say in their general lyrical style. But there is something else that causes its complete domination of my musical landscape, and the thrilling feeling that this is the only music I ever want to listen to. (Time was that I couldn't imagine another band having as cohesive a catalogue as the Doors.) I suspect it's the songwriter's belief in the music, of every song feeling like another piece towards understanding a certain philosophy. And quite simply, some philosophies are more exciting than others. Not more valid, or honest, or mature. Just exciting. McComb isn't nearly as seriously infused with Byronic fury (a wonderful Xgau phrase) as Morrison, and comes across as less of a mystic and more a poetically inclined soul trying to balance the pain with pleasure. Ok, so maybe some philosophies are more personally incisive than others.

1) The Triffids, "Stolen Property". The most stylish send-off of its kind, but who is it really directed towards? Himself? If so, by implication others like him, leading one to conclude that this is really an accusatory song for the right kind of listener.

2) The Triffids, "A Trick of the Light". I don't doubt that there's a prurient undertone to the lyrics, but speculating on this is rather tiresome. My initial reading, which is the one I'm sticking by, is far more powerful anyhow. I imagine the middle-eight as being an accurate depiction of the mental anguish the recipient of the song must feel, her image being summoned so many times to fulfill some moment of shared affection that has long passed.

3) The Triffids, "Save What You Can". I think it's pragmatic rather than mournful that good times have passed. It's also quintessentially McComb in its combination of tired defeat and resolute faith. There's the right amount of pain to convince us he knows what he's talking about, and yet enough hope to convince us he knows the limits of what pain can teach you.

After a break from music, it takes only the briefest of re-initiation ceremonies to bring all the voices flooding back. On the right kind of day, it isn't too much of a hyperbole to say that various combinations of lyric & music* consume most of my waking thoughts. (I can only speculate about dream time, of course.) This has been true ever since I started listening to music seriously. All that has changed over the years is the nature of the songs in my head, on account of my taste slowly improving :-) This state of mind has historically fostered marathon listening & obsessing sessions, and when it's really too much to handle even some form of writing. I don't think I'll ever decipher the mysterious power of song, which bodes well if it continues to elicit such reactions from me.

So complete is this mental take-over that I dwell on old dreams of being involved with this form somehow. But blessed with neither the talent nor emotional resilience** that it requires, I end up in pretty much the same place I've always been. I can, and should, set my sights on much more modest goals, though. Getting around to playing an instrument would be a positive step no matter the final outcome; I can only imagine the pleasure of one's own guitar strum providing the backdrop to a rendition of a John Prine song, say. I'd also like to better focus my writings on music (meta posts like this are exempted from any criticism ;-)). I realize why it's difficult to make much headway on these things, though: it's far easier to listen to music than make something from one's reaction to it! In light of this, I would say that at the very least, a basic hope is to become a "better" listener, which you may interpret however you like. But I don't use the word "obsession" lightly in this context. This music is pretty powerful stuff when it gets into my head. So I have a strong sense that even being the best listener in the world won't be enough for me.

* I put lyric before music on purpose, because that appears to be the ingredient I have the most affinity towards; while classical melodies sometimes run through my head, it's never with the same intensity as any of the songs that make it to this blog's recurring lists.

** I really don't know how one of my favourite songwriters (guess who?) managed to reconcile his hypersensitivity with the harshness of performing music in public. In an interview, he mentioned something similar to what I wrote above, namely that his obsession with music, combined with his realization that he could do something that no one else was doing, got to the point of being "ridiculous". As he put it, it ended up almost as if there was no other way but for him to get up on stage and start performing.