Screw Rock 'n' Roll

As I have mentioned, I left the power cord for my beard trimming device at home, which means I haven’t been properly groomed since April. It has reached the point where, whenever I look in the mirror, I am reminded of Bunyip Bluegum’s Uncle Wattleberry (on right), qua:

This is a frontways view of Bunyip Bluegum and his Uncle Wattleberry. At a glance you can see what a fine, round, splendid fellow Bunyip Bluegum is, without me telling you. At a second glance you can see that the Uncle is more square than round, and that his face has whiskers on it.

[…]

The plain truth was that Bunyip and his Uncle lived in a small house in a tree, and there was no room for the whiskers. What was worse, the whiskers were red, and they blew about in the wind, and Uncle Wattleberry would insist on bringing them to the dinner table with him, where they got in the soup.

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May 20

Top four little women in Little Women

Amy: what an amazing and pretentious brat.
Jo: bad bitch freal.
Beth: aww, Beth is nice: an endearing version of Mary Bennett.
Meg: Ugh you are boring please fuck off now.

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Books

May 18

On the way to America…

…I finished reading Great Expectations. (It was the first time I’d read Charles Dickens.)

What this book seems to be about: An Australian who turns himself around after a life of crime, makes loads of legal money, sends it all to some English kid, and then when he decides to go see how the boy is doing, gets killed by the British government. Which then keeps the rest of his money for itself.

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books australia

Apr 29

Erin and I are playing Bookshelf Roulette. I’ll let her explain:

(for those who are uninitiated, the Bookshelf Routlette concept comes from the brilliant Literary Disco podcast, which you should all listen to. The three hosts get three numbers from twitter, which indicated which bookshelf corner they count from, which shelf, and which book along, and they then discuss that book. It’s just one part of the podcast, but it’s always fun).

I gave Erin some numbers and she returned Melina Marchetta’s Saving Francesca, which I have not read. (I’ve read Looking for Alibrandi of course.)

And now it’s your turn. Your numbers are 3, 3, 26.

Counting clockwise from the top left corner of my bookcase returns the third shelf from the bottom, twenty-sixth book from the right, which, as you can see above, is Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita.

I don’t remember when I bought this, though I imagine I did because it was a Penguin classic and at ten dollars I would have thought why not? I haven’t read it, partly because I’ve had a bad habit of taking it on flights with me and then, once aboard the plane, realizing that the last thing I want to read when stuck in a metal tube ten thousand feet above the ground is Lolita. I will be sure to not make this mistake when I fly SYD-LAX tomorrow.

Another reason I am yet to read this is the opening:

Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee Ta.

The first sentence is a bit worn through overexposure to have much effect, but the rest is so remarkable in its use of language — the mastery Nabakov exhibits over the sounds and rhythm of his syllables — that I can’t read on. When Humbert announces “I was born in 1910, in Paris,” I don’t continue; I go back and read the opening again to admire anew what Nabakov does, apparently effortlessly, with his words. I wish I could do it too.

You too can play Bookshelf Roulette! Leave me some numbers and I’ll talk about another book. Or request some numbers and you can do the same!

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books writing

Apr 24

rachelhills:

I’m sure there is an image floating around somewhere of me, age 7, dressed as Alice, and my second grade bestie dressed at Dorothy.

Image by dollychops.

So, this is what I wrote on Facebook when I saw this:

Isn’t Dorothy in her teens and Alice about seven? (She thinks her sister’s book without illustrations or quotations is really dull.) I’d say Dorothy would be babysitting.
Also, I wonder how the upper-class and English Alice would respond to the Midwestern farm girl Dorothy? Would she only be able to think of her as the help?
And 35 years separates publication of the two stories, meaning that Alice would actually be in her forties when Dorothy went to Oz. So maybe Alice is really Auntie Em’s age?

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books america england

Apr 15

The Ataris, “Fast Times at Drop-Out High,” End is Forever (2001)

More rock ‘n’ roll recursion: “Fast Times at Drop-Out High” is a subtle but unashamed homage to Jawbreaker’s “Condition Oakland.” The quote isn’t melodic or lyrical though; it’s in the production. See, in the Jawbreaker track, the bridge consists of scratchy-voiced recitation of Jack Kerouac’s October in the Railroad Earth^[1], while in the Ataris’ track, the bridge consists of a near identical scratchy-voiced sample from Good Will Hunting. (Kris Roe is a bit more middlebrow than Blake Schwarzenbach.) As if in confirmation, the following song on the album, “Make Me a Mix Tape” shouts out Jawbreaker in the lyrics. This, combined with The Get Up Kids referencing “Jinx Removing” in “I’ll Catch You” is what made me check out Jawbreaker. That and Andy Greenwald’s Punk Rock, Teenagers, and Emo^[2], (Though I might actually have heard Jets to Brazil first.)

The Ataris actually have been pretty influential on my life. My discovery of Kris Roe’s pop-culture–centric nostalgia coincided with the time I most wanted to rigorously absorb myself in pop cultural history, viz:

My eager absorption of the classics is not something I could or would want to repeat now, but I did get something out of it at the time. Forcing myself to seek out the music and movies and books that popular consensus had deemed unimpeachable made me realize that many of those works weren’t worth the acclaim, but it also expanded my horizons and introduced me to things I genuinely did enjoy — or even love.

And I can’t do that anymore. I can’t embrace the worth of a project of watching “classic” films and reading “classic” books and listening to “classic” records the way I did in my first year of university, even though there are so many of those that I still haven’t watched, read, or heard. (Perhaps one thing I’m better aware of now is the number of non-classic works I haven’t experienced.) But the period of my life shaped by an insatiable desire to conquer the canon had some worth, beyond even realizing the eventual worthlessness of such a desire.

So Roe was a good guide to works I couldn’t access of my own volition, like the archetypical elder brother. (In real life, I am the elder brother.) The Ataris sang about things I already liked, like The Catcher in the Rye, and introduced me to Kevin Smith, Built to Spill, Good Will Hunting (I was the kind of nerd who didn’t pay attention to movies, even ones that won Oscars), Stand By Me, Fast Times at Ridgemont High, and Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure.

They also introduced me to lots of places I was beginning to find very interesting. They sang about “wasting time in east New Jersey” and “missing something in this small New England town” and “dr[iving] to Michigan/600 miles with no destination” and “just another Sunday in a small Indiana town” and “playing a basement show on a Saturday night in Pennsylvania” and how “at 6 am, Las Vegas doesn’t look that cool.” And all these places sounded more amazing and significant than the place I was at the time — particularly since they were the same sort of places pictured in the movies Roe sang about.

Maybe it’s because of what I wrote about here:

The mid ’90s really marked the beginning of this punk and indie rock approach of portraying artists as uncomplicatedly belonging to middle class suburbia rather than obscuring or fleeing those origins. From there you get Death Cab for Cutie’s quiet college party dramas, or Brand New’s aimless parkway loitering or Jenny Lewis’s chain restaurant crises.

Because the overwrought restlessness of bands like the Ataris seemed to say more about my life at the turn of the century than any Australian bands around, who turned national identity into self-parody, or considered it something to be erased. America seemed like a better place for someone like me.

——

1. I just realized that the first line of Death Cab for Cutie’s “Title Track” — “Left uninspired by the crust of railroad earth that touched the lead to the pages of your manuscript” is probably a reference to the Kerouac piece — particularly in light of Ben Gibbard’s Kerouac fondness. I’d always figured it to be an allusion to Railroad Ave in Bellingham, Washington, which is what Gibbard is referring to when he sings “Whenever I come back, the air on Railroad is making the same sounds” in “A Movie Script Ending.”

2. Back when that book was first published, emo was so obscure and American — this was before “Sugar We’re Going Down” — that I couldn’t find a copy of it in Australia. The very first day I ever spent in America included a visit to the Borders in Santa Monica, where I found a copy of the Greenwald book. I held it awestruck in my hands: this was genuine Americana. During that visit, I also found a book filled with comical observations about the differences between Democrats and Republicans. The only one I remember is Democrats: You can’t believe Abraham Lincoln was a Republican! and Republicans: You can’t believe Abraham Lincoln was a Republican!

(Source: Spotify)

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america music emo movies books

Mar 15

The Gaslight Anthem, “Great Expectations,” The ‘59 Sound (2008)

I’m reading Great Expectations, atm. I’ve never read Dickens before, just because. Now I am.

It’s funny how the night moves,
Humming a song from 1962.

Cratedigging: That’s Brian Fallon appropriating Bob Seger, but it’s Bob Seger singing about listening to the Ronettes (“Be My Baby”). Are there any examples of pop music with even more recursion than this song that quotes another song referencing a third song?

(Source: Spotify)

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music books the gaslight anthem

Mar 15

And then China’s only other truly popular politician, Premier Wen Jiabao, gave an equally spell-binding press conference performance in which he twisted his knife into Bo’s political career. Wen revealed Bo was under investigation and likened his mass politics in Chongqing to the most lawless moment of China’s Maoist past. ”Reform has reached a critical stage,” said Wen. ”Without the success of political reform, economic reforms cannot be carried out. The results that we have achieved may be lost. A historical tragedy like the Cultural Revolution may occur again.”

[…]

One year on, Premier Wen is retiring from political life, tainted by revelations of his family’s hidden wealth. And Bo is sitting in a secret prison cell waiting for the party to find the courage required to commence his prosecution. Bo stands accused of myriad crimes including massive corruption and an involvement in his wife’s murder of an Englishman.

John Garnaut, “Grand reform is for ‘real men’, says Xi,” Sydney Morning Herald, March 9, 2013

“Now see here, Fudge — you’ve got to do something! It’s your responsibility as Minister for Magic!”

“My dear Prime Minister, you can’t honestly think I’m still Minister for Magic after all this? I was sacked three days ago! The whole wizarding community has been screaming for my resignation for a fortnight. I’ve never known them so united in my whole term of office!” said Fudge, with a brave attempt at a smile.

The Prime Minister was momentarily lost for words. Despite his indignation at the position into which he had been placed, he still rather felt for the shrunken-looking man sitting opposite him.

—J.K Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (2005)

I’ve argued before that it’s better to understand the preposterous structure of wizarding government in Harry Potter to not be the result of authorial sloppiness but instead a portrayal of genuine political dysfunction. And while Rowling does use the Ministry of Magic to satirise Western — particularly British — political institutions, I rather think the best way to understand the wizarding government is to conceive of it as being something akin to the Chinese Communist Party.

Think, for instance of the way popularity is meaningful (Fudge has lost public confidence; Bo and Wen were both genuinely liked figures) but irrelevant in terms of how we understand it in democratic societies: that is, as a path to electoral victory. Think also of the way so much of wizarding politics consists of influential and connected backroom figures like Albus Dumbledore or Lucius Malfoy attempting to curry favor amongst elites to advance their ideological stance. Or the inconsistency with which laws are applied depending on wealth, political connection, or social status. (Both Malfoy and Arthur Weasley use their political influence to avoid legal scrutiny, for instance.)

The United Kingdom is a liberal democratic society, but there’s no reason to believe wizarding Britain is the same. It’s better to understand it as a one party state attempting to modernize (EDIT: And suppress disruptive dissent) without sacrificing political stability. Wizarding Britain is contemporary China.

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books politics Harry Potter england china

Mar 09

Céline Dion ft. Diana King, “Treat Her Like a Lady,” Let’s Talk About Love (1997)

I’m currently reading Carl Wilson’s 33 1/3 take on Let’s Talk About Love, and so at work yesterday, I took a listen to the album in question. (Or I took a listen to the first seven tracks. Then it got a bit much for me.)

“Treat Her Like a Lady” is the third track and it’s weird, or far more weird than you would expect from Céline. The track is a cover of a song by the Jamaican singer behind the ’90s hit “Shy Guy,” who appears on Dion’s version, and is a strange mish-mash of dancehall — complete with toasting — funk, mid ’90s pop, and Céline’s brassy widescreen voice. It’s not quite good, but it’s not pan pipes and love dedications either. (“My Heart Will Go On” isn’t that awful anyway.)

(Source: Spotify)

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music '90s books

Feb 26

Here is D. H. Lawrence in Women in Love describing the combative Gudrun’s encounter with an equally combative rabbit, Bismark:

They unlocked the door of the hutch. Gudrun thrust in her arm and seized the great, lusty rabbit as it crouched still, she grasped its long ears. It set its four feet flat, and thrust back.

None of the translations I have looked at match Lawrence’s repetition of “thrust” to suggest a parallel between the woman and the rabbit, the way the violence of the one provokes the response of the other and puts both on the same level. Nor do they capture the nice way the word “lusty” ties the two “thrusts” together soundwise: none of them begins to recover the stubbornness and economy of “set its four feet flat.” It is not a question of poor translation; the text was created in English and that is that. This is what Celan called “the fatal uniqueness of language,” when the creative mind, deeply integrated within a set of native sound patterns, produces something that can exist exclusively in that language.

Tim Parks, “Listening for the Jabberwock,” The New York Review of Books, February 4, 2013

A rather indefensible prejudice I hold is one against translations; I tend to shy away from them. (It’s why I’m almost entirely ignorant of the literature of the entire continent of South America.) Sure, I could read Tolstoy now, I think, but what if one day I learn Russian? Wouldn’t it be better to read Tolstoy then, when I could do it with the words the author originally wrote?

Which is why my prejudice is indefensible. It adheres to a vision of creativity that I consciously disavow: that art is fundamentally individualistic, not collaborative; that the text should exist in a single true form; that mediation intrinsically weakens understanding. As such, I can rest a little easier when reading, say, Waiting for Godot, which was written in French but translated into English by its author, Samuel Beckett.

A bilingual friend of mine, who has done translation work, tells me that translation always involves something being lost from a work but also necessitates something being added. This should not be of concern; the text is a collaborative work, and the translator is not, then, an interfering intermediary but a creative component in her own right. And yet I still can’t help but think this is the tragedy of Babel: these thousands of languages I will never know each represent thousands of schools of human thought I can never properly access.

When I watch anime, which, current Puella Magi Madoka Magika absorption aside, is exceedingly rare, I think i better enjoy fansubs, the ones where the translation is just slightly off. It’s in those that I best understand I’m only hearing an approximation of the dialogue as originally written. I understand Japanese extremely poorly, but there’s something satisfying about peering through the murk of amateur translation and, combining it with the few phrases I know, limning actual sense.

This one time I was watching an anime with a different bilingual friend, this one a native Japanese speaker. The show had a joke, the phrasing of which I do not entirely remember, but went along the lines of one character saying, “ナーンだ” (Naan da — “it’s naan,” i.e. the Indian flat bread) and another misunderstanding that as “なんだ” (Nan da — “what’s that?”). A kind of Japanese who’s on first routine proceeded and I liked it because the wordplay was simple enough that I could understand the joke. But my friend thought the scene was hilarious, in a way that I couldn’t understand, no matter how hard the (in this case, professional) translation tried.

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language books

Feb 09

Posts tagged "books"

Top four little women in Little Women

On the way to America…