Downstream on the Clyde

Hearing loss

khorosanluna — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 01:20:55 +0000

What I never imagined when I was young was the bliss gradual hearing loss could bring. It wasn’t so tragic as I thought. Sure, I’ve read the articles that say more people wearing headphones get hit by moving trains and so on, but that’s no worry. You see, I so rarely wear my headphones anymore that I never run that risk. The worst risk might be that I’m tempted to walk in front of a train because of the music I can hear bleeding from others headphones. Just kidding.

Let me take a step back. Let me clarify. Let me paint you a picture.

For as long as I can remember, listening to music — one of my favorite activities — has been a crowded affair. At least three things happens when I hear music, much less see live bands perform. When I listen to music, I am hearing the music itself, hearing the formal idea of that music (if it’s blues, I hear the predecessors of that type, be in Texas slide, Appalachian, Ozark, Chicago, or Mississippi Blues), and more often than not, hearing the songs I’d write if I were up on the stage playing that music (would I add a minor chord change, would I put a bridge there, would I end the chorus on a dissonance?) myself. It gets crowded in my head! It gets loud and chaotic.

Hearing music, especially live music, can resemble a walk through Bedlam.

Hearing people talk, be it in a meeting, a restaurant, a night club, or a metro platform can rattle and exhaust me more than Captain Beefheart’s more jagged compositions! All the syllables of speech rival a go-go band’s rhythm section for complexity and surround-sound coverage.

Hearing loss, then, offers mercy. Suddenly, competition for my powers of concentration thins out a bit and provide me respite from the keening mass of supplicants. Suddenly, with the din receding to a distant mumble, I can breathe. Like a sound-board whiz who reduces the shrill sharps and warms up those tinny flats, my hearing loss spares me the shrieking inmates of Bedlam.

Ah, deafness, thou art my angel of mercy.

The fading sanctuary of museums

khorosanluna — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 22:30:24 +0000

I planned to write about the exceptional and amazing art I saw today. Indeed, works by Nam June Paik, Peter Campus, and Bruce Nauman wowed me, as did a magnificent portal gate and superb glass. But all that amounts to nothing, compared to the realization that museums no longer suffice to cheer me the way they once did. As Rock shows, Indian food, and movies before them, museums evoke Camus’ essay Myth of Sisyphus. Sure, Camus wrote — we know life is absurd in its futility, but knowing that, rolling the rock up hill becomes “our thing,” the constant that reassures us life can get no worse. On the other hand, Camus reminds us that if we repeat something we hold to be a Truth, a constant, often enough, it ceases to strike us as true. Thus does going to see rock bands, to tour museums, and to try foods cease to forestall the blues. Thus these bulwarks stanch the flood of futility and despair that every human faces sooner or later..but not forever. Sooner or later, they lose their efficacy.

My Week With Marilyn

khorosanluna — Sat, 03 Dec 2011 04:49:15 +0000

Rarely do movies live up to the promise of a good trailer, let alone manage to exceed the expectations it fosters.

Wow.

“My Week With Marilyn” is that rare treat. As the castaway diva, awash in expectations and fantasies of others, Michelle Williams breaks our hearts. Her breathy sensuality barely covers up her devastating and paralyzing fears; rather, it calls attention to the ghastly sexism endemic in show business which made and destroyed her.

But that’s not what this movie is about, really. This movie reminds us how devastating falling in love can be and, at the same time, why we should never stop taking that chance. No matter what the cost. All told, “My Week…” delivers what my mother called a “seven hankie” movie. As the young star-struck Colin Clark, Eddie Redvayne does earnest naivety heart-achingly well, while Kenneth Branagh evokes a most prissy and stuffy Lawrence Olivier.

I admit, I went to see this movie for one additional reason: I needed to see how Emma Watson conducted herself without a safety net. She didn’t disappoint me one bit, but I never forgot Hermione Granger.

Especial kudos must be aimed towards Dame Judi Dench who, as Dame Sybil, a doyenne of theater, goes out of her way to make all but the priggish feel comfortable and loved.

I can’t recommend “My Week…” highly enough. The acting, the direction, and the period music all add up to one hell of a movie.

To Sir With Love

khorosanluna — Sat, 26 Nov 2011 08:09:14 +0000

I could easily expound upon the sentimentality, cheesiness, awful music, and amateurish acting throughout “To Sir With Love.”. I won’t because it turns out to be one of the best movies I’ve seen in years. The transforming element, the ingredient that elevates this movie above the sum of its parts is Sidney Poitier.

As Mark Thackeray, Poitier plays an engineer who takes a temporary job as a teacher in East End. Faced with an unruly mob of seniors, Thackeray tries and errs until he lands on a bold experiment that not only treats students with dignity, but ekes out higher standards of behavior from them, too.

Poitier manages this role with a tightrope walker’s balance, dealing with a teenge crush, blue collar resentment, and racism. He only loses his cool twice (once on rage, the other in gobmacked surprise at his students’ exhibition of love and appreciation.

James Clavell’s hand on the director’s helm ably results in a cohesive tale where all the characters grow, and the narrative never lags. The social sophistication of this movie’s focus on teenage sexuality, race, and the correct way to remedy any and all injustices

I can not recommend this movie highly enough. It packs an emotional wallop I enjoyed more and more as the movie spiral led towards an emotionally charged coda.

Sharing and Caring

khorosanluna — Fri, 25 Nov 2011 07:28:17 +0000

I’ve known this for some time, but that Motorhead concert in Glasgow served to remind me I “share” far more than anyone cares to know. I knew full well that more than half the people I gushed to about this show were well past the point of caring about any of the bands I went to see, let alone traveling out of the country to see them. Gush I did, however, and it took me nearly a month to figure out why.

I wasn’t really trying to convince anyone else that this show mattered; I was trying to reassure myself that I’m still the person I’ve always thought I was.
When I was in my early twenties, I used to say that I was striving to live the life others said they wish they could. Back then, I retreated from this rather pretentious position when it occurred to me that I was spending money on stuff that only I cared about and nobody really envied me my life.

My next premise was that I made the choices I do so I could tell good stories in the aftermath of each trip, concert, watershed event, or failed romance. No matter how sad or disappointing an event was, at least I’d get a good story out of it, and that makes everything worth enduring, even heartbreak.

Many years have elapsed since. I have had a good story to tell, and as a consequence, my audiences have grown sparse. I surmise that I trumpeted the motorhead show in an effort to set the stage for the next set of stories I could tell on my return from Glasgow.

Too bad I don’t really have any good stories after the motorhead show. Glad I ate well and took photos. Else, I’d be tempted to write off the Glasgow trip as a narrative failure, a waste of money, and firm proof that I have nothing left to share. Oh, well.

Yes! They have penguins!

khorosanluna — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 21:21:04 +0000

…about 200 or so penguins, according to a young women giving facts over a PA.I missed both the Penguin Parade and the feed, but I shots roll and a half of photos of the penguins. I also got reindeer, zebras, big cats, and some primates. Low light may undermine some of my photos, and the dying battery in my phone will ruin others, but flightless waterfowl will be well represented.

A word or two about the zoo…

edinburgh’s zoo is neither the best I’ve seen (dublin’s zoo in Phoenix Park vies with New Orleans’), nor the worst (Philadelphia owns that distinction). It does have a good lot of space and various animals can stretch out a fair bit. The efforts at conservation are evident, but the cages the big cats and many of the primates occupy seem much too cramped, their inhabitants restless and bored. The notable exception to this, of course, is the penguin collection, where the pools are deep and the acreage ample. I enjoyed myself here, but they ave work to do if they want to become a world class zoo like Dublin’s.

Then again…

khorosanluna — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 17:07:49 +0000

Going to Iona has metastasiZed into some logistical tumor. I’ll wait until another summer to go.

In the meantime, I must figure out an alternative plan for my last day. Top contender is the Edinburg Zoo (I think they have penguins!)

Second verse…

khorosanluna — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 00:49:41 +0000

Same as the first

I decided this trip to Glasgow should be named after a Ramones couplet because I have repeated so many things this time, and I’m likely to duplicate a couple more. I’ll venture to Oban in another effort to reach the Isle of Iona (albeit with a little bit more strategy under my belt). So far, I have stayed at the same hotel, saw a movie my first night here, visited the Kelvingrove and Riverside Museums, and sought out fiery Indian food (again, with more strategy than the first time, and this time I succeeded – see post about Rawalpindi).

The real test will be my success in reaching Baile Mor before sunset tomorrow.

Forget the Odds

khorosanluna — Sun, 06 Nov 2011 00:32:20 +0000

Honestly, I would have been satisfied that Motorhead played Metropolis, Orgasmatron, and Iron Fist; that they played so much more and observed their superpb standard of performance only made it better for me. I was already happy when they hit the stage, and things only got better.

Let me back up a bit, provide some context.

I came to Glasgow this weekend to see a dream line-up of unbelievable proportion; uk Subs, the Anti-Nowhere League AND Motörhead, one bill, one place? It was a dream come true! Never mind the fact, that all three bands sported only one original member each. The spirit was intact, the music sound, and the performances top notch.

Hearing a thousand plus folks chanting “warhead” along with Charlie Harper gave me goose-bumps, while numbers like “Stranglehold,” “Tomorrow’s Girls,” and “Down on the farm” got the blood pumping extra vigorously. The Anti-Nowhere League did their part, too; old chestnuts like “So What,” and “Let’s Break theLaw Tonight” inspired audience participation, but let’s face it: the strongest responses came for “Woman,” “I Hate People,” and “We are the League.”. All told, the League came off as a dirtier, more profane Zodiac Mindwarp.

That’s a compliment, far as I’m concerned.

And then there’s Motörhead.

Turning in a roughly ninety minute set which culminated in a rousing sing-along of “Overkill,” Lemmy and the boys wasted little time and delivered the Sturm Und Drang with as much energy and conviction as they did twenty-five years ago when I saw them at the Warner Theater, the day after Christmas. my only complaint is the Obligatory Dreary Drum Solo. But forget the ODDS; I did.

Hell’s Bells!

khorosanluna — Sat, 05 Nov 2011 16:55:52 +0000

I can’t imagine a more perfect prelude to an evening of Motörhead than an afternoon of AC/DC.

Glasgow’s Kelvingrove Art Museum currently features an exhibit titled ~~Australia~~ Scotland’s Family Jewels,” a retrospective look at the legacy of AC/DC, the Australian band with distinctly Scottish roots. Chock full of photos, tour jackets, paraphernalia, and magazines covering their thirty-some years, the exhibit’s real gems are the video clips of AC/DC’s stomp across the sensibilities and hearing of countless countries and fans.

While the exhibit ably pays tribute to the eligibility and resiliency of Brian Johnson, the live performances, letters home, and photos leave no doubt that Bon Scott’s death deprived the world of world class front man with enough balls and pizazz to eclipse Robert Plant, Roger Daltrey, and almost anyone else I could name.

Except, of course, Lemmy Kilmeister.