Free Your Mind And Your Ass Will Follow

Benny’s made his first ever mixtape, and it’s good as can be expected from someone with such eclectic tastes and sheer passion for music. It may seem like there’s an unbridgeable chasm between Funkadelic’s spacey gospel chants of “Free your mind and your ass will follow! The kingdom of heaven is within!” and the twisted predatory blues of Velvet Underground’s Venus In Furs four songs later, but it flows just fine in the mix.

This is a link to the 128kbps, 54.1 MB file. If you prefer 192kbps quality, or fancy downloading the Madlib or Four Tet goodies Benny also makes available, they can all be found by clicking on “Aural Prostitution” here.

The End Of The Affair (Graham Greene): Excerpts

A story has no beginning or end: arbitrarily one chooses that moment of experience from which to look back or from which to look ahead.

* * *

Hatred seems to operate the same glands as love: it even produces the same actions. If we had not been taught how to interpret the story of the Passion, would we have been able to say from their actions alone whether it was the jealous Judas or the cowardly Peter who loved Christ?

* * *

I felt that afternoon such complete trust when she said to me suddenly, without being questioned,”I’ve never loved anybody or anything as I do you.” It was as if, sitting there in the chair with a half-eaten sandwich in her hand, she was abandoning herself as completely as she had done, five minutes back, on the hardwood floor. We most of us hesitate to make so complete a statement – we remember and we foresee and we doubt. She had no doubts. The moment only mattered. Eternity is said not to be an extension of time but an absence of time, and sometimes it seemed to me that her abandonment touched that strange mathematical point of endlessness, a point with no width, occupying no space. What did time matter – all the past and the other men she may from time to time (there is that word again) have known, or all the future in which she might be making the same statement with the same sense of truth? When I replied that I loved her too in that way, I was the liar, not she, for I never lose the consciousness of time: to me the present is never here: it is always last year or next week.

She wasn’t lying even when she said,”Nobody else. Ever again.” There are contradictions in time, that’s all, that don’t exist on the mathematical point. She had so much more capacity for love than I had – I couldn’t bring down that curtain round the moment, I couldn’t forget and I couldn’t not fear. Even in the moment of love, I was like a police officer gathering evidence of a crime that hadn’t yet been committed, and when more than seven years later I opened Parkis’s letter the evidence was all there in my memory to add to my bitterness.

The Tiger Lillies, Esplanade Recital Studio, Singapore, 12 June 2004

In hindsight, I suppose the best way to persuade people to accompany me to the Tiger Lillies gig was probably not to tell them “This band is so incredibly weird that even I find it weird!” I’d been assuming people would jump at the opportunity to see something so bizarre, but instead they generally smiled politely and invented other plans. But not all was lost; after a brief argument with Ida about who would be weirder, this band or the singer from Uzbekistan performing earlier that night (Ida: But she’s from Uzbekistan, how more fringe can it get?), Ida relented and came along.

I might well be wrong about this, but I believe the first song of the gig was about going down on a diseased whore. This was just to ease us in gently. The band went on to regale us with songs fantasizing about crucifying Christ (Bang In The Nails), wanting a hamster up your rectum (Hamster), and sex with flies (Flies, natch). The lead singer does everything, by the way, in an operatic falsetto, because, well, because he can.

Towards the end of one of the songs, the drummer substituted his drumsticks for two huge inflated plastic mallets and started banging away at his drums with them. This got wilder and wilder until, bit by bit, the entire drum set was collapsing onto the floor under the fury of this onslaught. He then proceeded to play on this drum set, collapsed in disarray onto the floor, until the intermission many songs later.

During a song about suicide, the drummer climbed up onto his stool with a bottle of pills and tipped them all into his mouth. He then started spitting them out rhythmically onto his (reassembled) drum set, thus playing his drum part in the song.

From what I’ve said so far it would be fairly easy to dismiss this band as a one trick pony, but there was actually much more to the gig than its novelty/shock value. The jazz standard Autumn Leaves was delivered completely straight, and although it might be difficult to imagine how a man singing it in an operatic falsetto could still bring out all the longing and pathos of the song, this was certainly achieved.

The same could be said of their encore song, Alone With The Moon, which was, very simply, as lovely and evocative a ballad as I have ever heard anywhere else. Despite the debauched hijinks that took place earlier, I think this song will actually be my abiding memory of the gig – Martyn Jaques in his mime-style make-up, bowler hat, and shirt braces, under a cold smoky spotlight, singing a note so high and clean and true I could have lived in it forever.

I’ve seen a lot of gigs, but I can’t think of any other gig I’ve seen that delivered on so many levels – music, comedy, theatre, pure showmanship – and where the performers were so inimitably unique. Whoever in the Esplanade decided to risk bringing the Tiger Lillies to staid old Singapore, I salute you and thank you from the bottom of my deviant heart.

Respect His Authoritah

I was also intending to write about Peter Kruder at the Heineken Green Room Sessions yesterday, but we got bored when he got a bit too acid-jazzy for our tastes, and went to Phuture instead, where I informed some tall drunk loser who looked all of 17 that if he wanted to use my bum as a grinding surface, he should probably give me some fucking flattery first.

After moving further into the crowd and getting Dom to take her cap off so that the loser couldn’t find us again, I was ambushed by a sudden and unexpected epiphany about Ludacris’s Southern Hospitality: it is the shit.

I’ve always had a thing for authoritative MCing – Chuck D is the obvious example to trot out here, and is probably the reason for this fetish in the first place, given that Public Enemy’s It Takes A Nation Of Millions is the first rap album I ever bought. Other MCs who float my “authoritative” boat are KRS-One and Roots Manuva, but I never really paid much attention to Ludacris. He’s always just been there, another of those people halfway down my “too much music, too little time” list, but when “Cadillac GRI-LLS, Cadillac MI-LLS, check out the oil my Cadillac SPI-LLS” (look, I didn’t say he was a poet, I just said he sounds authoritative when he raps) blasted out of the club speakers, multiple Michelle rap buttons were pushed.

The other thing that really does it for me in this song is the way the last word in each line is (only just) after the beat instead of right smack on it. I can’t quite describe why it makes such a big difference for me, but rapping with words smack on the beat reminds me of the Beastie Boys (eg. “Don’t! You! ask me to SMILE! I’ll stick around and make it worth your WHILE! etc.”), who I (shock! horror!) quite often find boring.

The last thing that really gets my booty shaking in this song (and quite a lot of others) is its extreme misogyny, but I can’t quite explain that in any rational way. I just derive wild joy from yelling “All my women in the house if you chasing cash, and you got some big titties wit a matching ass.” It probably has something to do with feeling empowered in my female sensuality or whatever.

Faye Wong, Singapore Indoor Stadium, 2 June 2004

For the sake of the ang mohs reading this who are even more clueless about Faye Wong than I am, the quick overview is that she’s a hugely famous Chinese singer whose success and popularity is surprising given the relatively adventurous nature of her music (relative to the world of Chinese pop music, that is), but perhaps less surprising given that she is very beautiful and has the voice of an angel. Musically, I’d describe her sound as Dolores O’Riordan meeting Sarah McLachlan at a Teresa Teng concert attended briefly by Bebel Gilberto, but in a good way, apart from when she does the awful Dolores-stylie banshee-keening. I’m sensing disbelief. I’ll move on.

I’ve never heard a fast Chinese pop song that didn’t suck, and unfortunately that trend mostly continued for me during this concert. Her ballads are generally enjoyable because they showcase her exceptional singing ability, but the fast songs sound like I could throw them together in ten minutes with a shitty synthesizer and some bog-standard trance samples. The only exception was a song which is either called Kai Dao Tu Mi or Tian Dao Tu Mi or Kai Dao Tu Ling (look, when you don’t understand what something means, it’s hard to remember exact wordings, okay?) which is very much like Tori Amos when she started experimenting with beats on From The Choirgirl Hotel. Feisty tune, snazzily performed, fun touches like singing through a megaphone so her voice sounds like a raspy vocoder, and interesting, thank God.

But let’s move on to the ballads, because they’re really what get those multi-coloured lightsticks in the audience swaying arrhythmically in the air, and inspire those screams of “WANG FEI! WANG FEI!”

[Why do Chinese audiences shout out the artist’s full name? This is so odd, it’s like going to an English gig and yelling “JUSTIN TIMBERLAKE!” or “WEIRD AL YANKOVIC!” I mean, in other concerts I’ve attended, I certainly never bothered with “Jackson” when I was screaming “I LOVE YOU MICHAEL!”, and my secondary three form teacher didn’t bother to add a “Bon Jovi” when she yelled “FUCK ME JON!” either.]

So anyway, she sang Tian Kong and Dan Yuan Ren Chang Jiu and Wo Yuan Yi and Hong Dou and Xiao Wang Shu and Ren Jian, which was very nice, because they are among the 17 songs of hers that I actually know. She also sang some cover versions with varying success – The Cranberries’ Dreams (fine until the banshee-keening bit, which is dreadful no matter who sings it), The Look Of Love (unexpected, but actually quite nice and Bebel Gilberto-y) and Tori’s Silent All These Years, which seems to be the most successful crossover English song ever in the Chinese pop world, given the number of Chinese pop chicks who keep covering it.

[I asked Terry if they retained the meaning of the Silent All These Years lyrics when they translated it to Chinese. “Of course not,” said Terry, “in Chinese music nothing is about domestic abuse; everything is about breakups.”]

The thing about Faye Wong is that you don’t have to know her songs or understand the lyrics to enjoy her concert, because most of the time, her amazing voice is enough. Depending on the song, she can showcase the rich vibrato of a traditional Chinese chanteuse, she can do the playful delicacy of a funny Broadway number, and she can do the sort of modern balladeering that Sarah McLachlan used to do well and Dido still wishes she could do well. At the end of the day, that voice bridges the gap of my ignorance and my cultural condescension, and is all I ultimately need as explanation of her richly-deserved fame.

Mahler’s 8th Symphony, Esplanade Concert Hall, Singapore, 28 May 2004

I spent Friday night at the most crazy-ass ambitious musical event I have ever witnessed. They’re opening the Singapore Arts Festival with 400 people performing Mahler’s 8th Symphony, and thanks to Debbie, I got to attend the media preview.

I’ve always loved Mahler because he’s such a drama queen, and this symphony didn’t disappoint. By the end of it the audience has been buffetted from side to side like leaves in the wind by superpower choir, mad trombones and walls of orchestra noise. In a good way! I could write more about why I think the performance was musically damn good, but it would almost certainly sound like pretentious bollocks, so all I will say is that everyone involved in this should be bloody proud, and everyone who was lucky enough to get tickets to this before it sold out should be bloody thankful.

She’s Lost Control Again

This week’s Breezeblock show has an even higher hit:miss ratio than usual, although the Knifehandchop live session should be skipped if you’re prone to nosebleeds. I started making a list of the good tracks but got tired of it because I was pretty much just adding every track. Can anyone out there be a lovely geek saviour and tell me how to record RealAudio streams and convert them to mp3?

Django’s offer of 25% off new CDs AND free shipping for new CD orders over $25 was just too good to resist.

  • Low and Dirty Three: In The Fishtank ($8.78)
  • TV On The Radio: Desperate Youth, Blood Thirsty Babes ($9.58)
  • Mogwai: Ten Rapid ($9.58)
  • Diverse: One A.M. ($11.18)
  • Explosions In The Sky: Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place ($11.98)

Wheeeee!

[Random question: does anyone find my frequent use of lyrics/song titles as blog entry titles pretentious?]

The Reader (Bernhard Schlink): Excerpt

From Bernhard Schlink’s The Reader:

“What happened at the selections?”

Hanna described how the guards had agreed among themselves to tally the same number of prisoners from their six equal areas of responsibility, ten each and sixty in all, but that the figures could fluctuate when the number of sick was low in one person’s area of responsibility and high in another’s, and that all the guards on duty had decided together who was to be sent back.

“None of you held back, you all acted together?”

“Yes.”

“Did you not know that you were sending the prisoners to their death?”

“Yes, but the new ones came, and the old ones had to make room for the new ones.”

“So because you wanted to make room, you said you and you and you have to be sent back to be killed?”

Hanna didn’t understand what the presiding judge was getting at.

“I…I mean…so what would you have done?” Hanna meant it as a serious question. She did not know what she should or could have done differently, and therefore wanted to hear from the judge, who seemed to know everything, what he would have done.

Everything was quiet for a moment. It is not the custom at German trials for defendants to question the judges. But now the question had been asked, and everyone was waiting for the judge’s answer. He had to answer; he could not ignore the question or brush it away with a reprimand or a dismissive counterquestion. It was clear to everyone, it was clear to him too, and I understood why he had adopted an expression of irritation as his defining feature. It was his mask. Behind it, he could take a little time to find an answer. But not too long; the longer he took, the greater tension and expectation, and the better his answer had to be.

“There are matters one simply cannot get drawn into, that one can distance oneself from, if the price is not life and limb.”

Perhaps this would have been all right if he had said the same thing, but referred directly to Hanna or himself. Talking about what “one” must and must not do and what it costs did not do justice to the seriousness of Hanna’s question. She had wanted to know what she should have done in her particular situation, not that there are things that are not done. The judge’s answer came across as hapless and pathetic. Everyone felt it. They reacted with sighs of disappointment and stared in amazement at Hanna, who had more or less won the exchange. But she herself was lost in thought.

“So should I have…should I have not…should I not have signed up at Siemens?”

It was not a question directed at the judge. She was talking out loud to herself, hesitantly, because she had not yet asked herself that question and did not know whether it was the right one, or what the answer was.

[The reference to signing up at Siemens is to her signing up with the SS when it recruited workers from the Siemens factory where she had been working.]

Krakow

We’re on our last day in Krakow now, and leave in a few hours on the night train to Prague. Everything has gone frighteningly swimmingly so far.

I’d heard from various people that Poland can be a little racist and unfriendly to Oriental-looking people, but so far the most viciously racist comments I’ve encountered have pretty much been from Alec. We’ve received impeccably professional, extremely pleasant service almost everywhere, and everyone has been very forgiving of our lack of Polish and general bumbling nature.

We have had meals of such high quality (at an absolute pittance too – the best restaurant in Krakow for £40 in total, including wine) and such variety that Alec hasn’t even felt the least craving for Chinese food yet. (This is to be contrasted to our return from Budapest, where we spent the entire tube ride from Heathrow trying to decide which Chinese restaurant we’d rush to as soon as possible.)

Krakow itself has been great. The city centre’s got that usual European charm, but trekking along green fields and phallic rock formations in Ojcow National Park and being wowed in Wieliczka salt mine have been nice breaks from city strolling. Holocaust “sightseeing” can be harrowing but very worthwhile – we explored Kazimierz, walked over the river from that to the dingy factory building which would be completely unremarkable if Oskar Schindler hadn’t used it to save thousands of Jews, and yesterday, finally made the journey to Auschwitz.

All in all, this has been so fantastic I fear the cosmos have something bad planned for us in Prague. Fingers crossed.

Radio Ga Ga

Matt asked for Internet radio links, an area I am willing and able to help with, given that I listen to all my music via the Internet these days (okay, okay, MTV too) due to the total banality of Singapore radio.

Matt-specific links:

  • Last FM: A great range of material and stations. From Aphex Twin to Emmylou Harris to Miles Davis to Portishead to Sonic Youth to you get the picture.
  • Videos from the Montreux Jazz Festival, including performances by Radiohead, Mogwai, Jimi Tenor and Big Band and, er, The Stereophonics if you like them. :P (I haven’t had time yet to see The Roots, RJD2 and Yo La Tengo performances, but certainly will at some point. Also Flavor Flav just for the fun of it!)
  • Not quite radio, but I don’t suppose you’ll say no to a mindbogglingly large array of obscure Radiohead mp3s
  • John Peel on Radio One

Other online radio sources I use regularly, for anyone else who’s interested:

  • D*I*R*T*Y for a large archive of mixes, including sets by DJ Shadow vs PC (and many other Solid Steel mixes), Matmos, Four Tet and Susumu Yokota
  • The Breezeblock on Radio One
  • Spank Radio: Lots of indie, mostly okay. Playlist includes Rachel’s, Polvo, Red House Painters, Interpol.
  • Anything on 1Xtra, where I wander from dancehall show to drum’n’bass show to garage show like a country bumpkin in a vast amazing city of utter joy.

[Mp3 treats for the day, courtesy of boom selection: scroll down the page to the entries for March 4 and March 6. There you will find a veritable treasure trove of the insanely catchy. Please treat yourself to drum’n’bass and glitch remixes of Toxic, and the dancehall divaness of Lady Stush ($ Sign) and Ce’cile (Rude Bwoy Thug Life).]