Finished reading Dan Simmons's The Terror. Not a bad yarn, but not a great novel. As simply a presentation of a situation (arctic exploration, two ships frozen into the ice for two years with supplies dwindling and an impossible monster killing off crewmembers and scratching its way slowly into the hulls) and subsequent progression and resolution of a story, it satisfied wholly. But as a Novel, in all the glory that the word implies, it falls somewhat short of other purported Simmons successes (Carrion Comfort, The Song of Kali, both of which are on my to-read list) with an unnecessarily bloated word-count (it's as if the author was determined to reveal every piece of information he gathered in his research inside the final text), poor characterization throughout, and - perhaps insurmountably - unbelievable, purely expositional and clumsily anachronistic dialogue.
I particularly liked the bits near the end, with the devolution of some of the lesser crewmembers into mutinous, murdering cannibals. I would, wouldn't I? I also like the monster, and the way Simmons isn't afraid to let it remain just that: a monster. I was afraid through the whole reading that the thing would turn out to be someone in a costume (awful idea, Shyamalan, just awful) or a large polar bear or a surviving dinosaur or something. Nope. It's intelligent, preying on the crew members not for food or for self-preservation but simply because it wishes them misery; it's a sort of Wendigo of the ice, a symbol of starvation and hardship for human beings in the wilderness manifested in a very real beast. Good stuff. Three out of five stars.
I enjoyed 4 on the Floor at the Deli last night. Local classic rock covers at their most carefree but proficiently performed. And as always most of the people there are just cool.
Applied for two summer jobs yesterday; need either of them desperately. Also, what are you hiring for out there? I'll do it.
I plan to continue my education at UAH in the fall. It'll have to be English, I'm afraid; I'm interested in something to do with publishing for a fallback career.
I have this idea that I need to be well-read before even attempting to publish my novel-in-progress; that I need to be well-read in the horror genre, at least. It's hard work, and quite daunting. I recently tried The Amityville Horror, and that damn thing is absolutely unreadable. I've never come across such odiously poor language or contemptuous disrespect for audience in a published work. I hope there aren't many more like it; I quite like the other writers I've read after a bit of research at the beginning of my trying to sweep the canon, like Ramsey Campbell, T.E.D. Klein, Thomas Ligotti, W. Peter Blatty. It's gonna be a fun project to complete.
Right. Bed, and church drummer hat in the morning.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Divorce Your Husband!
I finished recording a song called "Divorce Your Husband!" today. It was hard, and it still has to be mastered. As a disclaimer, it has nothing to do with any of my exes who are married, but is about the ridiculous things that guys sometimes expect of girls. It also has a great deal to do with the Super Mario Bros. myth. So there. It will be on sale soon as a retro CD-single, just like from the nineties.
I've loved playing at the Main Street Deli each week; it's a great place to come home to. Anyway, here are the lyrics:
"Divorce Your Husband!"
by Jared Cushen
Think about the good times, like the night I walked to your house
And woke up everyone inside
Just to say 'I love you' at three in the morning
How many guys would do that for a two-week anniversary?
Just divorce your husband; you could stay at my house,
Hold me through the hard times,
Wake me up with French toast and eggs
Come be my lady; you won't ever leave home again
Can't believe your gall, girl, saying that you're happy
Living in the city now
You know I know you better,
Your blood is in the country
They say he's got the money, but babe, I've got the gravity
Bitch, divorce your husband!
You could stay at my house
Hold me through the hard times, wake me up with French toast and eggs
Come be my lady; you won't ever leave home again
Once there was a Princess; she ruled the Mushroom Kingdom
With her loyal Toadstool Gang
She really was a Peach; that girl should have seen it coming
Had just the kind of curves Koopas like to lock in castles
And when King Koopa bore down, laying siege to Mushroom,
At first they wouldn't let him in
It took a lot of shouting, a little roundabouting
But soon he had her taken with the blessing of her family
I went to the castle, asked her dad, King Toadstool,
'Why the hell'd you let her go?'
He said, 'The world is hard now; she had to go with someone
And how many men have castles?
Mushroom God only knows'
Well I know I'm just a plumber; I haven't got much money
Kind of short and stocky, but I've got jumper's legs
And I'm out to gather coins now; she's gonna be so grateful
That she won't even judge me for taking all those mushrooms...
I've loved playing at the Main Street Deli each week; it's a great place to come home to. Anyway, here are the lyrics:
"Divorce Your Husband!"
by Jared Cushen
Think about the good times, like the night I walked to your house
And woke up everyone inside
Just to say 'I love you' at three in the morning
How many guys would do that for a two-week anniversary?
Just divorce your husband; you could stay at my house,
Hold me through the hard times,
Wake me up with French toast and eggs
Come be my lady; you won't ever leave home again
Can't believe your gall, girl, saying that you're happy
Living in the city now
You know I know you better,
Your blood is in the country
They say he's got the money, but babe, I've got the gravity
Bitch, divorce your husband!
You could stay at my house
Hold me through the hard times, wake me up with French toast and eggs
Come be my lady; you won't ever leave home again
Once there was a Princess; she ruled the Mushroom Kingdom
With her loyal Toadstool Gang
She really was a Peach; that girl should have seen it coming
Had just the kind of curves Koopas like to lock in castles
And when King Koopa bore down, laying siege to Mushroom,
At first they wouldn't let him in
It took a lot of shouting, a little roundabouting
But soon he had her taken with the blessing of her family
I went to the castle, asked her dad, King Toadstool,
'Why the hell'd you let her go?'
He said, 'The world is hard now; she had to go with someone
And how many men have castles?
Mushroom God only knows'
Well I know I'm just a plumber; I haven't got much money
Kind of short and stocky, but I've got jumper's legs
And I'm out to gather coins now; she's gonna be so grateful
That she won't even judge me for taking all those mushrooms...
Friday, March 5, 2010
Deep Cuts, Issue #2: Astral Weeks
Van Morrison - Astral Weeks
Fun trivia fact: this is the first album that Van Morrison made on purpose. Most people don't know that the single cut of "Brown Eyed Girl" comes from what Morrison thought was a demo session in New York, the cuts from which were released as an album without his knowledge or permission. It was a lucky mistake, but he apparently would rather have been making things like this.
V.M. has called Astral Weeks "anti-pop and -rock," which it sort of is. The arrangements by Larry Fallon are certainly faux-classical enough, but V.M. can hardly excise either pop or rock from his singularly fine voice (which, it should be noted, tenants te front of the mix where it ought to except on "Sweet Thing," where, inexplicably, the hi-hat does; strings share the focus on the left division of the stereo mix. Weird).
A motif of the ghostly accompaniment is the sustenance of a single note over several measures and chord changes, suggestive of the eternal or of the solid. V.M.'s pretensions to grand themes are certainly legitimized by choices like this, at the very least in theory, and often decidedly in effect.
"Cypress Avenue" is a bassist's textbook on what to do when one finds oneself the focal accompanying instrument. Excellent work by Fallon and upright bassist Richard Davis.
V.M.'s ambition often drowns out the successes on the album with unfortunately bloated songs. It's as if he thought of every riff possible for each song, then included them all and insisted they remained on the finished product.
The rhythm guitar is out of tune on "Ballerina." With so much care taken elsewhere, why such an annoying, sloppy oversight?
"Slim Slow Slider" is the best and final track, evocative, haunting, and bleakly transcendent.
Gems: "Slim Slow Slider," "Cypress Avenue"
Fun trivia fact: this is the first album that Van Morrison made on purpose. Most people don't know that the single cut of "Brown Eyed Girl" comes from what Morrison thought was a demo session in New York, the cuts from which were released as an album without his knowledge or permission. It was a lucky mistake, but he apparently would rather have been making things like this.
V.M. has called Astral Weeks "anti-pop and -rock," which it sort of is. The arrangements by Larry Fallon are certainly faux-classical enough, but V.M. can hardly excise either pop or rock from his singularly fine voice (which, it should be noted, tenants te front of the mix where it ought to except on "Sweet Thing," where, inexplicably, the hi-hat does; strings share the focus on the left division of the stereo mix. Weird).
A motif of the ghostly accompaniment is the sustenance of a single note over several measures and chord changes, suggestive of the eternal or of the solid. V.M.'s pretensions to grand themes are certainly legitimized by choices like this, at the very least in theory, and often decidedly in effect.
"Cypress Avenue" is a bassist's textbook on what to do when one finds oneself the focal accompanying instrument. Excellent work by Fallon and upright bassist Richard Davis.
V.M.'s ambition often drowns out the successes on the album with unfortunately bloated songs. It's as if he thought of every riff possible for each song, then included them all and insisted they remained on the finished product.
The rhythm guitar is out of tune on "Ballerina." With so much care taken elsewhere, why such an annoying, sloppy oversight?
"Slim Slow Slider" is the best and final track, evocative, haunting, and bleakly transcendent.
Gems: "Slim Slow Slider," "Cypress Avenue"
Thursday, March 4, 2010
"Deep Cuts", Issue #1: ...And Justice for All
Actually, forget that thing I said yesterday about making a new blog just for this. It's okay if I just make this a series within this blog, right? I don't have to make another one?
It's called "Deep Cuts," and its purpose is to review out-of-the-way pop music classics; still quite famous, but perhaps off the beaten path a bit. You won't find Zoso or Abbey Road here. My first choice is
Metallica - ...And Justice for All
This, on one disc, is the popular emergence of progressive metal. The opening of "Blackened" and the album recalls the opening of Queen's A Day at the Races with "Tie Your Mother Down." The two albums share a majesty and an innovativeness, if they share nothing else.
Neither the tightness of the group nor the skill of its players can be denied. I do have immediate personal objections which are purely tonal; Mr. Hetfield's voice never howls quite to the desired intensity, and the drums are EQ'd, if not poorly, at least in disharmony with my taste. The kick drum is clicky - make of it what one will. It's common enough in metal.
It's difficult not to hear ...And Justice retrospectively, with the knowledge of virtually an entire genre which has been influenced or is directly descended from it. It's also difficult to forget how many bands have improved on what was begun here, and in leaps and bounds. Rhythm-section pummellers like Mastodon come foremostly to mind.
The music is at its best during mid-range duel guitar breaks (Mr. Hammett's super-human blues freak-outs, while technically striking, fare less well) common of acts which have come to be called "Viking metal."* Sections such as these, along with dark Celtic overtones on "One," are aggressively evocative in the most pleasant of ways. Music suggestive of madaeval magic and Druidic orgies in the woods is enough to make a listener wish the authors of these lyrics more thoroughly understood why they liked music like this (Metallica is composed of high school dropouts to the last man) rather than being content to simply bunch together trite death and darkness cliches at odds with their intriguing music.
The ironic Wizard of Oz Winkie mimic at the start of "The Frayed Ends of Sanity" seems the most painfully dated moment.
We hear the most anticipation of the future of metal - and of all progressive rock - in "To Live is to Die," an excellent showcase of Metallica's dynamic which begins with roughly three minutes of the heaviest balls-to-the-wall bludgeoning on the album before proceeding to a section reminiscent of the softer "One," with some spoken word vocal in there somewhere. As usual, the group's at its finest when the lyrics are beside the point and ignorable.
* Drummer Lars Ulrich has named Queen as a primary influence of Metallica, and that's never more apparent than in these sections, which employ symphonic guitar arrangements the like of which Queen's Brian May pioneered and mastered.
Gems: "To Live is to Die," "One"
It's called "Deep Cuts," and its purpose is to review out-of-the-way pop music classics; still quite famous, but perhaps off the beaten path a bit. You won't find Zoso or Abbey Road here. My first choice is
Metallica - ...And Justice for All
This, on one disc, is the popular emergence of progressive metal. The opening of "Blackened" and the album recalls the opening of Queen's A Day at the Races with "Tie Your Mother Down." The two albums share a majesty and an innovativeness, if they share nothing else.
Neither the tightness of the group nor the skill of its players can be denied. I do have immediate personal objections which are purely tonal; Mr. Hetfield's voice never howls quite to the desired intensity, and the drums are EQ'd, if not poorly, at least in disharmony with my taste. The kick drum is clicky - make of it what one will. It's common enough in metal.
It's difficult not to hear ...And Justice retrospectively, with the knowledge of virtually an entire genre which has been influenced or is directly descended from it. It's also difficult to forget how many bands have improved on what was begun here, and in leaps and bounds. Rhythm-section pummellers like Mastodon come foremostly to mind.
The music is at its best during mid-range duel guitar breaks (Mr. Hammett's super-human blues freak-outs, while technically striking, fare less well) common of acts which have come to be called "Viking metal."* Sections such as these, along with dark Celtic overtones on "One," are aggressively evocative in the most pleasant of ways. Music suggestive of madaeval magic and Druidic orgies in the woods is enough to make a listener wish the authors of these lyrics more thoroughly understood why they liked music like this (Metallica is composed of high school dropouts to the last man) rather than being content to simply bunch together trite death and darkness cliches at odds with their intriguing music.
The ironic Wizard of Oz Winkie mimic at the start of "The Frayed Ends of Sanity" seems the most painfully dated moment.
We hear the most anticipation of the future of metal - and of all progressive rock - in "To Live is to Die," an excellent showcase of Metallica's dynamic which begins with roughly three minutes of the heaviest balls-to-the-wall bludgeoning on the album before proceeding to a section reminiscent of the softer "One," with some spoken word vocal in there somewhere. As usual, the group's at its finest when the lyrics are beside the point and ignorable.
* Drummer Lars Ulrich has named Queen as a primary influence of Metallica, and that's never more apparent than in these sections, which employ symphonic guitar arrangements the like of which Queen's Brian May pioneered and mastered.
Gems: "To Live is to Die," "One"
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
"Everybody in the whole cell block..."
I spent last Monday night in jail for an outstanding traffic warrant, which becomes more strange and hilarious to me every time I think about it.
Driving home from a short stay at The Tavern in Scottsboro, I was pulled over for a busted headlight. The officer complimented my driving and took my license and valid insurance card. After an abnormally long time he discovered the warrant, and promptly cuffed me (in size M-100 cuffs, I discovered upon inquiry), had my car impounded, and began to seem suspicious of me. I can only assume that, because where before he had been very friendly and good-old-boyey, he now breathalyzed me, gave me a sobriety test, and asked if I had drugs in my car. I was still in a very good mood at this point, you see, because I didn't realize I'd have to spend the night yet.
We drove up (he drove; I sat in the back asking questions like a bright kid on a field trip) the Mountain to Northeast college where I was handed over to a Fort Paye city cop; my violation had been in DeKalb County. Upon arrival at the county jail they took my stuff and my shoes and my money and my coat, took my cheesing mug shot, and let me call somebody. I hoped to reach my mom at home right away so I could have a chance to say, "It's me again, Margaret," but no luck.
Anyway, they put me in the big holding cell where they usually keep all the drunks. It's just a big concrete room with a blanket. Suffice it to say nothing happened to me that's improved my opinion of either law enforcement or penal systems.
Enough, enough. I promise I'm going to be a good blogger now; I was discouraged after a lukewarm reception of "Gold in the Hills;" which, if you haven't read it, is a good story. I promise. And even if you don't like it, I wouldn't mind hearing what you think. But one way or the other, I miss blogging, and I know there are some people who like this, so I'll be back regularly. Scout's honour.
I've been reading my face off lately. Right now, it's Dan Simmons's 1000-PAGE MONSTROSITY The Terror, which is sprawling and anachronistic as all hell and perfectly lovely for a horror fetishist like me. I like the idea of fictionalizing an historical event; not only casting historical figures as fictional characters (which, let it be said, is the only way any of us know them anyway) and imagining what they think and feel, but actually inserting a terrifying supernatural totally made-up element into the proceedings. Simmons has put a monster out there on the ice with poor Franklin and Crozier and their ice-locked ships, and I think that's awesome.
I'm headed to the Mainstreet Deli in Fort Payne tonight for Open Mic Night, which I've been doing each Wednesday for several weeks now. It's a nice place, all about low-key boozing and music. I've never encountered a club so friendly and so loyal to its musicians. You should come out some night. I hope to see my new friends from Cracker Barrel there, who liked my "Meet Me On the Other Side of the Graveyard" last week. Are you guys reading? Top of the morning to you!
I have a few reviews of music and things to post, which I'll do separately in an adjoining blog to this one. I'll be starting that...NOW.
Driving home from a short stay at The Tavern in Scottsboro, I was pulled over for a busted headlight. The officer complimented my driving and took my license and valid insurance card. After an abnormally long time he discovered the warrant, and promptly cuffed me (in size M-100 cuffs, I discovered upon inquiry), had my car impounded, and began to seem suspicious of me. I can only assume that, because where before he had been very friendly and good-old-boyey, he now breathalyzed me, gave me a sobriety test, and asked if I had drugs in my car. I was still in a very good mood at this point, you see, because I didn't realize I'd have to spend the night yet.
We drove up (he drove; I sat in the back asking questions like a bright kid on a field trip) the Mountain to Northeast college where I was handed over to a Fort Paye city cop; my violation had been in DeKalb County. Upon arrival at the county jail they took my stuff and my shoes and my money and my coat, took my cheesing mug shot, and let me call somebody. I hoped to reach my mom at home right away so I could have a chance to say, "It's me again, Margaret," but no luck.
Anyway, they put me in the big holding cell where they usually keep all the drunks. It's just a big concrete room with a blanket. Suffice it to say nothing happened to me that's improved my opinion of either law enforcement or penal systems.
Enough, enough. I promise I'm going to be a good blogger now; I was discouraged after a lukewarm reception of "Gold in the Hills;" which, if you haven't read it, is a good story. I promise. And even if you don't like it, I wouldn't mind hearing what you think. But one way or the other, I miss blogging, and I know there are some people who like this, so I'll be back regularly. Scout's honour.
I've been reading my face off lately. Right now, it's Dan Simmons's 1000-PAGE MONSTROSITY The Terror, which is sprawling and anachronistic as all hell and perfectly lovely for a horror fetishist like me. I like the idea of fictionalizing an historical event; not only casting historical figures as fictional characters (which, let it be said, is the only way any of us know them anyway) and imagining what they think and feel, but actually inserting a terrifying supernatural totally made-up element into the proceedings. Simmons has put a monster out there on the ice with poor Franklin and Crozier and their ice-locked ships, and I think that's awesome.
I'm headed to the Mainstreet Deli in Fort Payne tonight for Open Mic Night, which I've been doing each Wednesday for several weeks now. It's a nice place, all about low-key boozing and music. I've never encountered a club so friendly and so loyal to its musicians. You should come out some night. I hope to see my new friends from Cracker Barrel there, who liked my "Meet Me On the Other Side of the Graveyard" last week. Are you guys reading? Top of the morning to you!
I have a few reviews of music and things to post, which I'll do separately in an adjoining blog to this one. I'll be starting that...NOW.
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