GlassMouthedCat

Great Scott

The first time I heard Scott Walker I was thirteen years old. It was a Saturday afternoon, late summer and while I was trying for the umpteenth time to persuade Alan Shearer to join Liverpool on an ancient version of Championship Manager. My Dad breezed into the room and drew my attention to the sound of the radio.

‘Listen to this; the lyrics are really good’.

As with most things parents try and turn you on to I instinctively got my back up, gave Pops my blankest of blank expressions and went back to my wheeler-dealing.  It wasn’t until shortly before leaving for university that I actually listened to Scott and I made sure I yoinked Dad’s copy of Sings Jacques Brel before I made it out the door.
    For a while I thought I had uncovered a hidden gem. A musical ‘Top Trump’ card I could lay down as and when a fellow music snob challenged my knowledge or questioned my opinion. Then I found out that every well-read fucker out there was already singing from the same hymn sheet.

The most shocking thing about Uncle Scott is when you realise that his mucky fingerprints are all over your record collection. The Phillips albums have spread their sumptuous gloom like butter all over The Divine Comedy, The Smiths, Blur and Richard Hawley’s scones. Nite Flights volleyed Bowie up the arse and into the direction of Berlin and Low and Heroes hell,  let’s throw Iggy Pop’s Bowie produce album The Idiot in there as well. Given that most people cite that as one of the core texts of the Goth movement I guess we can slap that on Scott’s resume too.
    Climate of Hunter may have featured Mark Knopfler and Billy Ocean but it was a big influence on U2’s The Joshua Tree. Oh shit, does that mean we have to blame him for Simple Mind’s, Big Country, The Mission et al?

Well bollocks to all that because here is where it gets interesting. Tilt marks the point at which Scott Walker threw down the gauntlet. The moment when the Ready Break eaters ran, blubbering to their Scott 1-4’s, their Stretch’s, where things made sense, when natural light was still allowed in the room. Tilt, an apt name for an album that signals the tipping of the balance into a new glorious, recklessly challenging, questioning  and pitch-black realm. Well maybe not pitch-black yet - but more on The Drift later.
    It’s a curious album, one that makes more sense now you can hear what came after it. As with all his albums it seems there are hints of the past; is Farmer in The City that far away from It’s Raining Today or Boy/Child?  Are there not echoes of The Old Man’s Back Again in the slyly funky bass of the title track?
For me it’s his most frustrating album. I’ve never quite gotten to grips with The Cockfighter or Manhattan but I love Rosary and Bouncer See Bouncer.

Which leaves us with The Drift. Unquestionable a disturbing, at time terrifying album but I would never say depressing. You’ll hear about how difficult it is, about how horrific it is and, y’know perhaps it is. For me the closest comparisons would be the more nightmarish of David Lynch’s work (so more Fire Walk With Me than The Straight Story) and the fear and vulnerability of staggering through an unfamiliar house, on your own, looking for the light switch.
    There are moments of euphoria to be found take, for instance, Clara. Arguably his masterpiece and as far down the spiral as it’s possible to go, I’d say, in Mr Walker’s world. Just when the tension is peaking and the squirming and stomach churning stars he starts bellowing about Mussolini’s arms and the storm clouds dissipate leaving nothing but sheer white light which dissolves, inevitably back into the darkness. This seamless folding and stitching of emotions is as powerful and intense as the ‘quiet/loud/quiet’ of  anything on Surfer Rosa but you can’t imagine anyone else applying the science as well and reaping such rewards.
    The Drift has been around for, what, four years? Opeth have tried to add a few ingredients from it’s spice rack but found it just doesn’t taste the same in their mixing bowl. Steve Wilson painted with a few of it’s colours on 2008’s Insurgentes bonus track Port Rubicon, a more noble effort but still lacking that indefinable something.

What is that something? Whatever it is it must come with time. Eleven years passed between Tilt and The Drift as eleven had passed between Climate and Tilt. In the few interviews you can find he emphasises the importance of ‘allowing the songs to come to you’. Apparently in the four or five years in between signing for Virgin records and making Climate of The Hunter he sat round in a log cabin in Scotland until he had the tunes. Scott Walker was 69 this year. I hope you’ll join me in praying that we haven’t heard the last of him.

Scott Walker - For Beginners

Amsterdam                    (Scott 1)
Farmer In The City           (Tilt)
Big Louise                      (Scott 3)
Nite Flights                    (Nite Flights)
Jesse                           (The Drift)
Sleepwalkers Woman      (Climate of Hunter)
Patriot (A Single)            (Tilt)
Boy/Child                      (Scott 4)
Lullaby (By-By-By)*        (Punishing Kiss/5 Easy Pieces)
A Lover Loves                (The Drift)

*Written by Scott but performed by Ute Lemper and for my money his best song. Obviously with the exception of Clara. But I wouldn’t want to scare the shit out of you.

Ouroboros

LCD Soundsystem - This Is Happening

I’ve been living with this album for about a day now and still can’t shake the sense of crushing disappointment.

The right sounds have been made by the right people, the cover is very ‘now’ (now being someplace in late 1985) and the lead single was reassuringly tongue-in-cheek, winky-winky, cutesy-pie dance. BUT. As a whole, it falls short. Eight tracks too short.

Explanation? I’d love to…

What do we know of James Murphy? He has very good taste in music. He doesn’t take himself too seriously and all in all seems a decent enough bloke. There is however one problem. James Murphy is this generations’ Noel Gallagher. Not since Gallagher has there been a popular artist so brazen with his thievery of others ideas as to leave the listener feeling somewhat soiled, complicit in the crime through listening.
    On their debut album caps were doffed toward influences, elements subliminally woven, lacquered with a new take - the corpse of yesteryear pulled from the grave and Frankensteined into life by a tubby New Yorker. However, I ask you, nearly a decade later, what has changed? Lead single ‘Drunk Girls’ hijacks Bowie’s ‘Boys Keep Swinging’ call/response chorus to yawn-inducing effect,  no great shakes considering  the Killers and Blur (twice) have done this to greater effect in recent times. Then we have ‘Somebody’s Calling Me’ or Iggy Pop’s ‘Nightclubbing’ by it’s other name. This wouldn’t be such of a problem if it wasn’t for the fact that he shook all of the best leaves from the Bowie family tree last time round (see the Heroes-esque guitars of ‘All My Friends’ or the Transformer aping ‘New York I Love You…’)
    

• Definitely Maybe/LCD Soundsystem
• (What’s The Story)/Sound Of Silver
• Be Here Now/This Is Happening
• 2010/1997

…you get the idea.

And I want to like this album - I do, I do! Despite my protests at the time over what I perceived as a cynical attempt to crash wheepy indie fans pissed-up Saturday nights’ ‘All My Friends’ does evoke memories of more innocent, maybe even better times. ‘Someone Great’ was one of last decade’s greatest singles but you can’t rest on your laurels. You do and you become your own tribute act, fall out with your bandmates and never speak to your broth- oh, sorry. Lines blurring again…

So, is the party over? Perhaps, the best cut of the album is arguably opener ‘Dance Yrself Clean’ but this is such a stand out because it manages cultivates an enigmatic, mysterious air in contrast to the foot-through-front-door-all-guns-blasing previous albums first tracks ‘Daft Punk…’ or ‘Get Innocuous’. All in all ‘This Is Happening?’ sees LCD at a stand still. A band who know what they are, where they are, but sadly not where they could nay, should be going.

‘Progression is moving forward, regression is moving backward. Anything else is just ‘gression’.  - Noel Gallagher.

Bang to rights.

vom(i)t

2009 brought all of this

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sugaralthoughthatwasfromthe90’sbutitdoesn’tmatterasiboughtitthisyearandthisismylistdidibecomeawareofmymor

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wouldonlywishtodothatwhichilovealthoughitisseldomthecaseisthisthepricewepayforconciousnesssometimesiwond

erifmylifewouldbemorefufillingasatreefrogintheamazonatleasttheniwouldbeawareofmylimitationsratherthanconsta

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omegaofhumaninterestwhatelseohibecameanuncleagainwhatdoimakeofchildren?somewherebetweenwonderousa

ndselfishnessifpeoplejuststumbledintobecomingpregnantthenperhapsi’dhavealessskewedtakeonitbutasitispeople

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ndwhoamitosaywhoserightorwrong?Alotofmyambitionswerefufilledthisyearbutthereisevenmoreworkinstorenextye

arasaresultthiscanonlybeagoodthingihopeyouwhoeveryouarearetheretobearwitnessanditoyoualsomuchloveandm

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2mins past Eight 16/12/09

We drive.

I say ‘we’ but it is my friend next to me who is in control.

I am a passenger but I feel as integral to the process as he.

The sky is deep maroon, the lights dehydrated piss orange and just as rank. They leak over me, he - us.

We are glorious, we speed away from our captors, the damners, the ill-wishers, the put-uponers.

All roads are open to us and we choose our own way.

For 24 hours.

In the back lies a brother; a shadow.

He/it is the yang/ying.

He/it is flat and at peace.

He/it is aware of the prize that we hold in our hands. The alloted time. The chance.

Soon there will be disappointments, drunken waltzes, awkward introductions and quick bites.

Now there is purpose, a soundtrack and focus.

We are in love.

ACCOUNT

Two men are sat at a table.

One fat, one thin.

There is a plate upon the table.

Upon the plate sits a great. big. bird.

The bird opens it’s beak.

AND SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!

(stops)

“I like this song” says the fat man to the thin man.

“You like this song, but I do not.”Is the reply.

The fat man regards the thin man.

He rises from his seat at the table. He walks at a slow, even pace to the pantry.

(THE THIN MAN WATCHES WITH CONTEMPT)

The fat man opens the door and stands before the shelves. Shelves filled with similar looking, doe-eyed birds. Birds like that of table dwelling.

(THE THIN MAN HAS SAD EYES)

The fat man drums his chubby fingers contemplatively on his chin.

(‘NO OUTCOME WILL PLEASE ME’ THINKS THE THIN MAN)

The fat man chooses and lifts his bird from the shelf. This bird has purple and green feathers. He places the bird under his arm, pulls his volumenous pants up by their rope belt and returns to the table.

(THE THIN MAN SEES)

“Lets see the effect of this bird” says the satisfied fat man. He believes a bird of this plumage cannot fail to produce a song to put a smile on his friends lips. This is a very popular bird. This is the season’s choice. This is, what the men of the market call, ‘a dead-cert’.

(‘WHY DO WE OWN/NEED THIS BIRD?’ THINKS THE THIN MAN)

The fat man strokes the catatonic birds’ head. The bird awakens.

AND SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!

The fat man’s eyes sink leaving slits. His rosy-red-apple cheeks are pumped with hot-blood and swell like water balloons rising to just below his hiding eyes.

“I do not like this song either” says the thin man. He drops his head and shakes and shakes and shakes. It.

“But it is a good song!” whimpers the fat man. OH! HOW HE LOATHES TO SEE HIS FRIEND SO SAD.

“It is the same as the last”. Blasts the thin man.

“A different bird!” Counters fat.

The thin man stands. He wrenches the bird from the plate and stomps to the pantry door.

(THE FAT MAN HAS HANDS ON MOUTH)

The thin man flings the door open and points an outraged finger at the contents.

The purple bird’s eyes are glass again. It’s beak shut.

(THE FAT MAN SHIFTS. LEFT.RIGHT.LEFT.RIGHT etc)

“All the same fucking bird!” the thin man calls it as he sees it.

“Different!” pleads the fat man

Each bird is taken in turn to the table. Each bird is heard at the table. Each bird is judge both different and the same in turn.

The fat man cries. OH, he cries!

“Don’t understand” he sniffs from snotted cloth.

“Come” says the thin man. He stands again.

THE PAIR MAKE A QUICK BUT TIME CONSUMING JOURNEY TO THE ATTIC.

“What is this place?” coos the fat man as he bats the pull-switch for the attic light.

“Sit” says the thin man.

The fat man does this. Between the pair is a box.

From the box is taken. a bird.

“See” says the thin man.

He places the bird in the chubby paws of a bewildered beast.

“Scared!” whines the fat man. “Different!”

(TEARS NOW)

The thin man rolls his eyes and takes back the bird. He lifts it to the blue day light that comes through the (ROUND) window.

Expressions ebb and flow accross a fat face. He is not so scared now. He can see that it is a bird similar but not like those of the pantry. It is not as beautiful to him. It is smaller, sleeker, less colour(SHIT), grandure (FAT) more angles. Different.

“Does it sing like those of the pantry?” fat face asks question.

Thin nods now. Nodding. Relax.

He tickles it’s breast, the bird opens it’s beak…

AND SIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINGS!!!!

MORE BIRDS ARE FORTHCOMING. THE BOX IS VARIETY. EDUCATION TAKES PLACE. FURTHER READING OCCURS. HOURS ARE SPENT NOW AND AFTERWARDS THERE IS THE KITCHEN AGAIN.

At the table the men sit.

The fat man rises.

P.a.n.t.r.y.

“I thought we had an accord?” thin.

“But these birds are nearer…” says the fat man.

“You will always be fat and stupid, you will learn nothing. You deserve nothing. Your life deserves to be one of misery not idiotic contentment!” Damns the thin man.

“True, I am and will continue to be fat and what you believe to be stupid. However, I am happy and full whereas you are ill at ease, questioning and always, always hungry.”

PLUME

AMPHIB/MAMM/DISTRUST inc.

Birds.

The birds sit.

The birds sing.

They fly from tree to tree. Hop from branch to branch. They drink. They bathe.

Claude watches.

Claude watches from his spot on the arm of the sofa. Proud Claude, Gigantic Claude. Claude King of Cats, of all he surveys. Master. Ruler. God.

Claude scowls as he watches.

The birds talk to each other.

They say things like; “Why does he watch?” “Why does he not join us on the outside?” “All this could be his, he too could play. Why does he watch, why does he stare so?”

They would not like the answer.

Claude yawns, a wide toothless yawn.  Claude is thirteen years old, as wide and as tall as the microwave that heats his Smart Price Chicken Kormas and he is vengeful.

“Maaarp” says Claude.

Claude does not talk like others anymore. Of course, we humans wouldn’t understand him even if he did, but now even his fellow felines have given up any hope of meaningful conversation with him.

Claude coughs up a hairball. He turns his sickly yellow eyes to the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Five to four. Claude smiles. ‘Food’ thinks Claude, ‘Food forthcoming, food presently, food in more than due course‘. The reassuring sound of a five-door saloon car with exhaust problems reaches his crooked ears. ‘House staff’ thinks Claude.

They have been home for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes and still Claude goes without food. They did not notice his sacrifice. The Woman, the Man and Boy all. Not one thanked him for his greeting. Seldom did Claude greet them from their travels. ‘Not even a titbit’ damns Claude. Instead They move away from the kitchen, away from their duties and they go…there. He hears their footsteps above him, knocks and bangs and clicks and slams. He looks forlornly at the mountain of white plastic bags piled on the floor in front of him. Each loaded with treat upon treat, goodie upon goodie, morsel upon morsel. His weathered, slathering tongue hangs from his mouth.

“Maaaaaaaaarp!” Wails Claude.

Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.


The Boy holds him. Holds him inexpertly. Claude’s lower half hangs desperately under the boys crossed forearms. His lower girth pushes up under his chin practically suffocating him. The boys legs shake, almost buckling under the strain. Claude’s eyes are wide, his eyes questioning.
He had been napping when the abduction had taken place. He looked for the Man and Woman, they had, on occasion, proved to be useful when in a tight spot.
“Look Claude” said the Boy, “Friends, new friends!”
Claude adjusted his eyes to the lights and squinted into the dimly lit box in before him. Two Bullfrogs sat inside. Basking in the warmth of a heat lamp. Basking at Claude’s expense. They had slowed his service, They had broken his slumber. ‘Reparations’ thought Claude, ‘Reparations.’



Night had come and gone.

Morning was with Claude.

Claude was with the Bullfrogs.

First the Man had left. Then the Woman and Boy. Claude was alone, alone with the Bullfrogs.

Claude climbed up…there. Where heroes fall and are broken, where doors are opened into faces. Where Kings are removed from their thrones and subjects seated in their place. Claude climbed and he snuck and now he watches. He watches from the shadows. The Bullfrogs have noticed him. They have tried to make contact, but Claude does not respond.

Not. A. Peep.

The Bullfrogs are worried. Their hospitable nature tells them to welcome the stranger but their instincts tell them to get as far away as possible. They are nervous and worried. They have not, as yet, worked out exactly what Claude is. To them he resembles a large, punctured, football. Some badly arranged pillows perhaps. They were worried, have bypassed nervous and are now scared.

Then he is gone.

The tank shakes for us, the World shakes for the Bullfrogs. The turn towards the source of the noise and there, filling the side as though he were on an IMAX screen. Claude. Wrath. The bullfrogs do not move. They are frozen.  The smaller of the two opens his mouth but his companion shuts it for him.

“Maaaaaaarrrrppppppppp!” roars Claude.

The tank vibrates under the force of bellowing Claude. His eyes tightly squeezed shut, his jowls a-flapping, thick feline spit flecking the glass.

The Bullfrogs do not move.

Claude opens his eyes. He glares at the two trembling shapes before him and smiles. A Hangman’s smile. The Bullfrogs watch as Claude moves, mollusc-like over towards the heat lamp.

Claude looks back at them.

They look at Claude.

Claude looks at the temperature dial on the lamp.

They look at the temperature dial on the lamp.

Claude turns the dial.

HEAT. Unbearable heat.

“Wasser!” Scream the Bullfrogs. “Wasser, Master, Wasser!”.

Claude smiles. He smiles and turns the dial back again. The Bullfrogs sob, their backs burnt, the water in the tank uncomfortably warm irritating their sore skin.

“Why?!” The smaller frog implores.

‘Reparations’ thinks Claude ‘Reparations.’


Time passes quickly now for Claude. They do not understand. They do not understand why the Bullfrogs behaviour has become so erratic. Why their skin is so dry and sore. Why they hide from sight under the tank decorations. The Boy is most upset.

This pleases Claude.

The Bullfrogs are taken to specialists. Specialists furrow their brows. Do tests. Make suggestions. Suggestions are followed, changes made. Still sores, still dry skin, still the behaviour.

‘They are stupid’ thinks Claude.



For a time Claude is amused but Claude has become weary, jaded. He breathes heavily from his spot on the sofa. Thick rain covers the earth outside, the sound of uncooked rice poured into a saucepan. All God’s creatures hide from the rain. Sheltered, huddled, waiting. Trapped. Claude allows himself a smile.


The curtains in the room are drawn now. The old lamp has gone, many have come and gone in its wake. None have presented a challenge to Claude. The Bullfrogs seldom move from their spot under the thick stick. The thick stick protects them from his sight but not from his reach. The smaller frog lies on his back.

“How much longer,?” he sighs.

“This is our lot now.” replies a broken spirit.

“Maaaaaaaaarrrpppp!” roars Claude.

The tank shakes for us. The world shakes for the Bullfrogs.

They huddles together under the thick stick. Their great eyes dart in every direction. Cold webbed hands moving across each others bodies. A feeble attempt at protection from the impending heat.

“No more.” Their mantra begins. “No more.”

HEAT. Unbearable, unforgiving heat.

Claude body vibrates with soundless laughter. He is ready to complete his work. He pushes his wide head into the base of the lamp, nudging it closer and closer to the tank.

“Wasser master, Wasser!” Scream the Bullfrogs. Their tongues whipping across each others backs, coating each other in lukewarm spittle.

Claude pushes the lamp. He pushes the lamp until it tilts and smacks against the side, cracking the lid and pouring more light inside. He turns his head upright, the sight of the perishing pair causes more laughter, raucous, vicious, spiteful laughter. He raises himself up on his hind-legs. His front paws waving out before him in jubilation.

But Claude has misjudged his sense of balance.

Claude falls.

He falls back.

Back off the desk and onto the ground.

He lies like a Galapagos Turtle. His paws scrape and scratch at the air. His eyes wide as plates, the pupils circling like a ball in a roulette table. His flab slopes back on itself. Towards his neck. Suffocating him.

The Bullfrogs are hopping. They seen the crack in the lid. They jump for their lives. Great leaps, banging into the lid. The lid is almost…the lid is off.

FREEDOM.

Claude, Claude is becoming dizzy. He has overreached himself. He damns the desk, he damns it’s impractical distance from the floor and insufficient size. He takes in shallow breaths. His stomach hurts. A rhythmic tattoo plays across his mass like an irregular heartbeat. He turns his head to the side. In the reflection of the waste bin he sees to green shapes bobbing up and down on a large black and white ball.

The Bullfrogs dance. They dance atop Claude.

“Vengeance,” they chant, “Vengeance”.






Claude wakes in a white place. He has seen this place before. Not in dreams. Nothing so romantic. This is a place of corrective surgeries, of appetite suppressants and emasculation. His eyes hurt, he is tired and confused. They. are there. The Man, the Woman and Boy.

“Claude?” The Woman says.

“He’s awake, Josh, he’s awake!” The Man is excited.

Claude looks at the Boy, the Boy - the traitor. The traitor strokes his stomach. Claude purrs. An uneasy purr. He is stills sore from before.

“They’re gone now Claude, both of them.” he says.

They all look at him with their treacherous eyes. Their guilt-ridden eyes. They seek redemption. The woman holds a Twix biscuit aloft, removes it from its wrapper and waves it in front of his mouth.

“Go on Claude, its your favourite - see?”

Claude leans his head away from it and makes a disagreeable sound from deep within his throat. They all laugh.

“Give it here!” says the Man. He takes the biscuit, separates the caramel from the base and holds it in front of Claude’s mouth.

Claude places his tongue out as though to receive a Communion wafer.

Claude is a forgiving God.