Daryl Hall: Sacred Songs

Daryl Hall was best known for being in Hall and Oates, a classic eighties pop'n'soul duo that contained one man who looked like Freddie Mercury and another man who looked Princess Diana.

Relatively few people know about his collaborations with Robert Fripp. the guitarist best known as the leader of King Crimson, and whose particularly English weirdness is almost impossible to describe, but summed up very well by the phrase "happily married to Toyah Wilcox", which indeed he is.

I used to have this album on cassette; I wore the tape out, but then I found it on CD when I went to San Francisco. It stands the test of time, as they say.

I'm a bit disappointed to have found out that the idea for 'Without Tears' was actually taken from a book called 'Magick Without Tears' by Aleister Crowley. I'm not a fan of the occult. I liked the song because it was all about emotions, and being articulate about emotions. Even today, when I cry about all kinds of things, I care very much about being able to talk.

Hiding Your Sexual Orientation From Your Parents

This recently de-classified material is made available to readers of HotVimto on a need-to-know basis.

(Yes, I'm still working on my thesis.)

Seventeen

"They only want you
When you're seventeen:
When you're twenty-one,
You're no fun.
They take a polaroid and let you go
Say they'll let you know
So come on"

I apologise to any twenty-one year olds who read Hot Vimto, but Ladytron's "Seventeen" is one kick-ass tune. And it makes me feel happy, in a demented, teenage kind of way.

I know, I know... I'm living my life in the wrong order. But the Sex Pistols had a song called Seventeen, and it started like this:

"You're only twenty-nine
Got a lot to learn
But when your mummy dies
She will not return"

WTF that was meant to be about, I never knew. Sneering, probably. (Why wasn't it called "Twenty Nine"?) Still, the Pistols turned out to be the plastic fork, when what really mattered the chips and curry sauce.

When I was seventeen, my father had been dead six months, and I was starting to read philosophy. He'd been a long time dying, and now he was gone, I was ready to start looking for him. I discovered TS Eliot, and identified with Prufrock. I read Tarantula by Bob Dylan, and thought it was crap, and copied him anyway. I listened to a lot of Elvis Costello, the early albums, when he was dark and cynical and sexy and soulful. I listened to Astral Weeks, and Miles Davis. I lusted after older women. It was the right thing to do.

It is strange to think, that if I have children of my own, it'll be with someone who was born after punk. "No Future? Whatever happened to that?" I hear Steve Jones lives in California, and has his own radio show.

I've lived my life in the wrong order. It was the right thing to do. I've finished, so I'll start.

What Are You Like?

What are you like?
You've had a right life
And taken a long ride
But oh what a cost

And all of your life
Staring at white lines
Reading the road signs
And oh what a loss

I bought this album about three or four years ago, and I've only played it twice. It's Richard Hawley's 'Coles Corner'. I know it was very well reviewed, and I must have wanted it, because I paid full price for it, but it didn't make any impact on me.

Then, this morning, I wanted some gentle waking up music, and put it in the CD. I ignored it happily for twenty minutes, then track six made me stop and listen.

Sleeping late in the afternoon
Playing your guitar

Born under a bad sign
Born under a bad sign

Sleeping late in the afternoon
Staying out till dawn
Born under a bad sign
Born under a bad sign

It seems to say something about where I was in my teenage years, and where I'm at now. When you're growing up, songs seem to describe your life perfectly - you go "Oh my god! this is me! This is me!" But nowadays, I pick and choose what I take.

"Born under a bad sign" doesn't describe me. It never did. But "What are you like?" is a question I ask myself often. I've lived an odd life, and I feel like I'm a late starter. Was it because I read too many road signs? It could be.

Of course, when I was a teenager, I knew everything, and I knew I was going to be brilliant. I didn't, and I wasn't. But I still might.

Now you're laying in the afterglow
And there's something that she wants to know
Are you going be the one to say
You belong to me, you belong to me

Born under a bad sign
Born under a bad sign

Sleeping late in the afternoon
Playing your guitar

Born under a bad sign
Born under a bad sign
You've had a right life
Born under a bad sign

Everybody knows
Everybody knows
Everybody knows
Born under a bad sign
Born under a bad sign

Anti-Matter Friday the Thirteenth

Yesterday was Thursday 26th.

Friday 13th + 13 days.

Does that make it double the bad luck?
Or is it the anti-matter Friday 13th that destroys all the bad luck?

Time will only tell.

As Dr John said, "What a long strange trip it's been."

The Place Where It All Falls Apart

I set out to tell a tale on this blog, and it keeps getting stuck, like an old record on a jukebox in a cafe that needs kicking (you see, I can't even order my subordinate clauses properly.) The needle gets caught in the groove.

(Younger readers, something similar does happen with CD's, but it doesn't sound anything like as funky. And we all bought our record collections again on CD because Tomorrow's World lied to us and said they were so robust you could fry eggs on them and they'd still work. )

I began with the tale of The House on Sandygate Lane, and that ground to a halt after two instalments. I started to map the Seven Ages of Gordie, and got as far as seven years old. I declared a Solstice of Sexuality, and still never got around to saying what that was all about. Then I started quoting chunks of Astral Weeks by Van Morrison. And I got stuck every time.


Confused? You will be... (once I get started)

Gordie is Sluggish

I have achieved moderate amounts of good work today. Moved furniture, thrown away crap, dealt with bits of administrivia, done laundry, and eaten an unprecedented number of Muller Fruit Corners.

But I am not In My Flow.

(Flow, according to a psychologist whose fascinating book I read, is an almost automatic, effortless, yet highly focused state of consciousness, in which you are fully immersed in what you are doing with a feeling of energized focus, fully involved in the process and the outcome.)

I have spent too little of my life in my flow.

Most often, I have gone through life as though something life-threatening was only inches in front of me, like poor Mr Slug here.

Wouldn't your life be ruled by fear, if you were a slug in a maze made of salt?

Things are changing. I took on the mission, a year or so ago, of writing myself a new life-story, and using this blog to put it out in the world. I know it's been episodic and pretty cryptic.

That's because I still feel like I'm looking through a kaleidoscope, that splits everything up and gives it back to me every which way.

I'm learning not to be overwhelmed.

I'm learning to be in the moment. I'm learning new ways of paying attention. I'm beginning to venture into the slipstream.

Letter to the Ex - No 2

On my birhday in 2006, I played this endlessly,
and sobbed like I was Bridget Jones.

This is no great illusion
When I'm with you I'm looking for a ghost
Or invisible reasons
To fall out of love and run screaming from our home

Because we live in a house of mirrors
We see our fears and everything
Our songs, faces, and second hand clothes
But more and more we're suffering
Not nobody, not a thousand beers
Will keep us from feeling so all alone

But you are what you love
And not what loves you back
That's why I'm here on your doorstep
Pleading for you to take me back

The phone is a fine invention
It allows me to talk endlessly to you
About nothing disguising my intentions
Which I'm afraid, my friend, are wildly untrue

It's a sleight of hand, a white soul band
The heart attacks I'm convinced I have
Every morning upon waking
To you I'm a symbol or a monument
Your rite of passage to fufillment
But I'm not yours for the taking

But you are what you love
And not what loves you back
So I guess that's why you keep calling me back

I'm fraudulent, a thief at best
A coward who paints a bullshit canvas
Things that will never happen to me
But at arms length, it's Tim who said
I'm good at it, I've mastered it
Avoiding, avoiding everything

But you are what you love,
And not what loves you back
And I'm in love with illusions
So saw me in half
I'm in love with tricks
So pull another rabbit out of your hat.

Letter to the Ex - No 1

The way Alison Goldfrapp sings this, she sounds like
she's had a row in a nightclub, been dumped, passed out, and woken up in a refrigerator full of Absolut.

I'll live for you
I'd die for you
Do what you want me to
I'll cry for you
My tears will show
That I can't let you go

It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet
You still want me, don't you
It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet
Cos I can see through you
It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet

Don't let me down
Don't make a sound
Don't throw it all away
Remember me
So tenderly
Don't let it slip away

It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet
You still want me, don't you
It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet
Cos I can see through you
It's not over, not over, not over, not over yet

Lola

I met her in a club down in old Soho
Where they drink champagne
And it tastes just like Coca-Cola
C-o-l-a cola
She walked up to me
And she asked me to dance
I asked her her name
And in a dark brown voice
She said Lola
L-o-l-a lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Well I’m not the world’s most physical guy
But when she squeezed me tight
She nearly broke my spine
Oh my Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Well I’m not dumb
But I can’t understand
Why she walked like a woman
And talked like a man
Oh my lola lo-lo-lo-lo lola lo-lo-lo-lo lola


Well we drank champagne and danced all night
Under electric candlelight
She picked me up and sat me on her knee
And said dear boy won’t you come home with me
Well I’m not the world’s most passionate guy
But when I looked in her eyes well I almost fell for my lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

I pushed her away
I walked to the door
I fell to the floor
I got down on my knees
Then I looked at her and she at me

Well that’s the way that I want it to stay
And I always want it to be that way for my lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola
Girls will be boys and boys will be girls
It’s a mixed up muddled up shook up world except for lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo Lola

Well I left home just a week before
And I’d never ever kissed a woman before
But lola smiled and took me by the hand
And said dear boy I’m gonna make you a man

Well I’m not the world’s most masculine man
But I know what I am and I’m glad I’m a man
And so is Lola
Lo-lo-lo-lo lola lo-lo-lo-lo lola
Lola lo-lo-lo-lo lola lo-lo-lo-lo lola

The Kinks

Gordie Is Absent

I would rather be anywhere else than here today.

History

Going back to the house at Sandygate Lane.
In search of demons and strangeness and truths.

"Ce ne'st pas l'histoire qui se repete, c'est la geography qui ne bouge pas"
It's not history that repeats itself, it's geography that won't move.
(Graffiti, Geneva, 1982)

"Celui qui ne bouge pas ne sent pas ses chaînes"
He who doesn't move, doesn't feel his chains.
(Rosa Luxembourg)

Fourth post of the day. As you can tell, I am distracted.

I'm writing. For work. Serious stuff. Going Aaaargh! And reflecting on my nature.

Am I the same person I was when I was thirteen?

Yes... and no. I am his heir.

His executor. I get to unlock the treasure chest of everything that young man put away. I get to play with it, use it, bring it out into the light, fulfil his dreams.

Fulfil his dreams?

I get to decide which of his dreams were worth anything. For I hold the key to his dreams.

That's a responsible job, isn't it?

Nightmare By A Rocking Cradle

I am an underachiever.
I'm not being myself.
I'm not in my flow.

The darkness drops again;
But now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
W.B. Yates - The Second Coming

It's been a long time since I hated myself.
It's been a long time since I hated my life.
I may be vulnerable to depression
But I've stopped feeling sad;
I've stopped feeling afraid.

The family of demons that took up residence in me, and shaped my life and ensured I survived, have quit their lodgings, and I know they left the place untidy, but they won't be coming back.

Am I happy?

Yes... But


I'm living my days in a spirit of pure avoidance and distraction
I will not be myself.

I stubbornly refuse it.

This must be what got me through my childhood.

"I am going to be a hero. Just not today."

I fancy a big house
Some kids and a horse
I can not quite, but nearly
Guarantee a divorce
I think that I love you
I think that I do
So go on Mister,
Make Miss Me Mrs You

I love you, I love you, I love you ,
Honest I do
I only make jokes to distract myself
From the truth.

I fancy a fast car
A bag full of loot
I can nearly guarantee
you'll end up with the boot

I love you, I love you, I love you ,
Honest I do
I only make jokes to distract myself
From the truth.

Sia Furler

How The Internet Works Or Not

Did you realise, if you Google

Jam milk bottles

the top entry in the results is...

Ellen MacArthur's blog!

A pirate's life is the life for me

Now please be good enough to read the post below this one, which is about Billy Elliot, The Jam, and milk bottles, and is dedicated to my mum. Thank you very much.