Loris Greaud: Cellar Door (Once is Always Twice)

I took the artist Loris Greaud’s sweets called Celador: A Taste of Illusion from the vending machine at the ICA bar. With absolutely no taste, you could find this pack of brightly-coloured lollies slightly depressing...

But while I swirled the tasteless sweets on my tongue – I still searched for a taste, instinctively refusing to believe they had no taste at all - it was like lolling an actual idea in my mouth.

His three dark but strangely glamorous rooms released my imagination. While soaking in the dark atmosphere, I imagined my own flavours for these zero-taste lollies. Instead of the usual green means lime etc. I decided on cloudberries for green, why not? And I have a whole packet left of strange delights. It made me think what I automatically put in my mouth and consume, consume, consume.

Then there is the black Champagne... yes, black.

“What about black champagne bubbles on moon rocks as an aperitif? Don’t be afraid of them – the champagne bubbles are speechless, it’s you who will do the talking. Just be careful to drink them at room temperature, otherwise the room will start multiplying!”

The 29-year-old French artist continues from last year's Illusion is a Revolutionary Weapon to create more of his brilliant unattainable experiences. He delights, disturbs and makes you imagine. & want to imagine more.

NB: For Part Two of this post see Further tremors after Loris Greaud exhibition


Link: Loris Greaud at ICA, London 25 Apr - 22 Jun 2008

Santogold L.E.S. ARTISTES

Santi White: leaping tiger in heels

On my iPod I've named a folder, 'happy.' Songs about happy things. It's a surprisingly small file, you try it sometime. But this downtown lullaby by Brooklyn's Santogold is definitely in.

The 80s production sound, guitars at 30,000ft and lyrics about getting on your feet in a new city. It's happiness in a New York minute.

Lyrics:
I can say, I hope it will be worth what I give up
If I could stand up mean for all the things that I believe

What am I here for
I left my home to disappear is all
I'm here for myself
Not to know you
I don't need no one else
Fit in so good the hope is that you cannot see me later
You don't know me
I am an introvert an excavator

I'm duckin' out for now
a face in dodgy elevators
Creep up and suddenly
I found myself
an innovator


Link: Santogold myspace page

some like it cold

a beautiful place where we shine

For the love of God, 2007, Damien Hirst

There must be another world, another world where we are light, where we become light. Part crystal, part sun, part raindrop, part rainbow, a beautiful place where we shine.

– Tracey Emin (a most beautiful tribute to Angus Fairhurst)

'tis very stimulating to move area. Go east young man, go east young woman. & don't be surprised if you hear there's a Rosé shortage in Brick Lane this summer. My new local will be the same one as Tracey Emin, if she still likes Rosé, that is (& yes, I still like Rosé - I'm deeply superficial). Pour the woman a drink, mf.


Link: Quote from Tracey Emin's blog in The Independent

song woman wine

wine song, & woman : song woman, & wine

Link: 30-second interview clip with Ryan Adams about getting on stage with Emmylou Harris (and how he nearly threw up with excitement)

Kurt Cobain at Rough Trade East

Kurt Cobain (1993) by Steve Gullick

Yesterday saw Steve Gullick's photographic exhibition, "Tenebrous" at Rough Trade East, Brick Lane, London E1 61L.

Like when you see a bird with a broken wing, and cry, "Look, it's hurt. (can't you do something?)" A crowd of girls stood around this photo and said, "Oh, it's Kurt...(can't we do something?)."


*sigh*


Link: Steve Gullick website


ps. Tenebrous = dark, shadowy or obscure.

New Ryan Adams song deleted from his blog

Really, it was only a matter of time before Ryan Adams featured here. Not because he is also born in the Year of the Tiger – his album is called Easy Tiger – but because, simply, I love love love him. That's it. That's all there is.


Anyway! (Short pause to admire this photo, in his room. Daymn.)

Anyway, anyway! – even the man himself admits he is a "fickle blogger". He'll put something up for a few hours, and then take it down.

Luckily this clip was grabbed before he trashed it. I like his solo acoustic songs the best and so, yeah, I guess I really like this clip... except one crucial thing that's missing.

Me. In his room (use your imagination).

Anyway! Back to my dreamtigers...




Link: Alt-Country site and Ryan Adams archive

wine women song

wine, women & song : wine woman, & song

Derrida: "I fight for improvisation"

'It's not easy to improvise, it's the most difficult thing to do. Even when one improvises in front of a camera or microphone, one ventriloquizes or leaves another to speak in one's place the schemas and languages that are already there.

There are already a great number of prescriptions that are prescribed in our memory and in our culture. All the names are already preprogrammed. It's already the names that inhibit our ability to ever really improvise. One can't say what ever one wants, one is obliged more or less to reproduce the stereotypical discourse.

And so I believe in improvisation and I fight for improvisation. But always with the belief that it's impossible.

And there, where there is improvisation, I am not able to see myself. I am blind to myself. And it's what I will see, no, I won't see it. It's for others to see. The one who is improvised here, no I won't ever see him.'


Link: Jacques Derrida, Unpublished interview, 1982

I play the drums in a band called okay

Is this book a cliché? Or do (some) bands believe their own bullshit so much that they become cliché? Does that make the band cliché rendered in this novel true? These are the ouroboros questions I asked myself as I read the 9th novel by Toby Litt.

The structure is laid out like a stage, with the drummer at the back narrating the action around him. Each chapter enters stage left like a short story in itself. Then comes the stereotypes beat out in 4/4 time: self-serving loneliness, chicks digging the lead singer over the drummer, drug-addiction, and the tedium of touring. Boom-tish!

Shuffle to the middle of the book and it gets a little more interesting. What happens after an ego-juggernaut stops? Enter the post-band comedown, when they’re in their 30s and it all begins to become too real… bored and jaded by all the fun but not able to give it up, either. For new haircuts, I mean - bands, in NME magazine this week (or last week, or whatever) it may be a nasty shock to see where it all leads. And it's not as tragic as you'd believe. It's downright mundane.

The drummer-narrator could’ve fallen a lot harder. I’ve seen it happen in real life enough to know he kept his sanity (if not his hearing) more than most. But this is fiction, and the band novel is always difficult when truth is often stranger than fiction: can you imagine a novel based on Keith Richards?? Also, the (Canadian, indie) band is called (lower-case, italics) okay; they are not larger than life rock stars. Which left me thinking: who cares?

If the larger-than-life rock star book is what you’re looking for then you won’t find it here. Read The Dirt - Motley Crue: Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band for the ultimate band book – for structure, characters (!) and redemption – but I warn you now, only if you can stomach it: it's not okay.

Link: I play the drums in a band called okay - The Guardian Digested Read

Agent Provocateur

Fancy your evenings in Guantánamo orange, but without the waterboarding torture? Then put a bid in for these limited-edition knickers from Agent Provocateur to support legal action group Reprieve. These two unlikely bedfellows came together to create Fair Trial, My Arse following

"...bizarre and unfounded accusations by the US military authorities that the Reprieve legal team smuggled contraband underpants into a prisoner in Guantánamo Bay."

So whilst Enhanced Interrogation Techniques are still exclusive to long-term holidays in Guantánamo Bay, you can enjoy your own "interrogations" at home with these sexy knickers – and support Reprieve and human rights.

But you'll have to be quick – Ebay auction ends on 28-Mar-08 at 15:25:53 GMT

And ps. they're orange and black - so you too can be a tiger like me grrrrrrrrr!!!!!

Comme des Garçons 888 (2008)

Ever wanted to be gold? Me too. Comme des Garçons designed their new perfume, 888, to be the olfactory expression of gold. Could this be our chance?

It's not the exotic Oriental I expected. No Alladin's cave here; no curling incense from a genie bottle amongst piles of gold coins and jewels. Quite the contrary.

Imagine you are in a Swiss bank with a biometric password standing in an air-conditioned vault – piled high with pure gold slabs. This is a serious perfume.

After testing it, I ran my nose up and down the inside of my forearm all day as if it had turned into a smooth bar of gold bullion. The smell is streamlined and modern with the base note a derivative of saffron with notes of pepper, coriander, geranium and amber.

It reminds me somewhat of Cinema, by Yves Saint Laurent (perhaps, the amber?); although if this is solid gold bullion, Cinema is more like a Solid Gold dancer in comparison. Personally, I imagine an older woman wearing it. But no doubt it will be a big hit in China. Eight is a lucky number in Asian cultures; and so, 888 is particularly auspicious.

For me, the only thing that smells equally good on everyone is money. Not everyone can wear gold.

Launched this month, it has a limited release.

Link: Available at doverstreetmarket.com (London).

Bladder Song

On a piece of toilet paper
Afloat in the unflushed piss,
The fully printed lips of a woman.

Nathan, cheer up! The sewer
Sends you a big red kiss.
Ah, nothing's wasted, if it's human.

- Leonard Nathan

Link: American life in poetry #7 - Leonard Nathan

Go live, win and lose

"Go live, win and lose, smash your hands against hysterical constellations, your head against phases of the moon, and your heart against another heart. Find the leisure to contemplate the results. You will discover the human condition. Foolish people who say that they seek reality don’t know what they are saying. For them, the worldly, when they approach it, they tremble and feel weak, distressed, fearful, terrified and repelled. They reject the truth and turn somewhere else for it, an easier, a softer, lifeless one. Little do they realize that they have been through the door itself, and in error, stupefying ignorance, in that immensity, said "nothing is here", and stepped back to dullness. They may be less eloquent and merely realize the words "it is painful. I must stop it", and step back."

Link: The Lotus is born in fire, by John Brzostoski

Doris Lessing: "Oh Christ... I couldn't care less"

When Doris Lessing won the Nobel Prize for Literature, reporters waited outside her home in North London to give her the news. She responded: "Oh Christ... I couldn't care less."

She is my favourite 88-year-old Nobel Laureate! As the second sentence of The Golden Notebook (1956) says:

“The point is,” said Anna, “as far as I can see, everything is cracking up.”’

Link: Doris Lessing on Nobel Prize

Finish your collapse and stay for breakfast

photo by Ted Pushinsky

The band with the name that most accurately reflects my life– Broken Social Scene – is playing in London Friday May 23rd at Shepherd's Bush Empire (and you thought I was going to say AC/DC).

I've listened to 7/4 shoreline everyday now for about two years. It makes my mornings feel like I'm gliding on a freeway in a sports car when actually I'm walking to the station in bad heels.

Broken Social Scene have five core members but on tour they include "whoever else was available to attend any individual show". I like to think of them as a collective. How many people are going to be on the stage in London? Hopefully, as many as they can find! And Ms Feist singing? Yes, please.

I don't think I'll be napping on no steps.

Link: All Tomorrow's Parties present Broken Social Scene

Divine Princes of Decadence

Why have I just finished two biographies about wilful and flamboyant self-destruction through spending large sums of money? I'm bored of my hell, I want to hang out in your hell for a change. Let's dream on in Less-Than-Zero style (£££, that is).

Bunker Spreckels: Surfing's Divine Prince of Decadence is about the step-son of Clark Gable who, at 21, picked up his inheritance in an armoured van ($50 mill) and set out on a mission to destroy himself. He asked his friend Art Brewer to document his life; and you can see for yourself in the photographs: he went from sun-kissed young boy to bloated, drug-crazed, gun-toting sex monster. He died of a heart attack at 27, before his film was completed. But you get the gist. I can't help but get a delicious thrill of schadenfreude observing a surfer self-destruct (Forgive me, but I grew up at the beach yet liked to wear gothic black: not fun).

The other biography is more seductive, or else, educative: Dandy of the Underworld, by Sebastian Horsley. Just like Quintin Crisp, just like Oscar Wilde, Sebastian Horsley believed the artist should also live the artful life, even more than creating actual art itself. To be a Dandy, in the historical sense, is a commitment to a lifestyle completely devoted to aesthetic pleasure and perfection. Even Mr Horsley's moments of pure squalor seem romantic because they are lived with an absolute commitment to his ideal. A few images will scar for me life: the amputee in the brothel with no arms or legs; well, it only proves there is courage in living your convictions.

Unlike Bunker Spreckel, Sebastian Horsley is still alive, living in Soho in London. He signed my book at Foyles bookshop. In ink, he wrote:

Hello dear, always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it. This is it. Love Sebastian.


Link: Sex, drugs and rolling surf: interview with B Bunker Spreckels
Link: Sebastian Horsley's blog

Keith Richards: Exile On New Bond Street

Talk about the blues. I'm walking down New Bond Street in Mayfair with only £2 in my pocket. Then, like manna from heaven, rising from the street like a sphinx holding a guitar is... Keith Richards. Is it a sign? Yes, it is. For Louis Vuitton, no less.

What are you doing Keith!? I know you are on good terms with the devil – but come on, seriously – advertising is so much worse. I can hear Bill Hicks turning in his grave.

Well, he's not exactly hawking diet soda. Louis Vuitton is donating the money to the Climate Project, led by Nobel Peace Prize winner Al Gore. And it's the first time Keith Richards has ever participated in advertising of any sort.

The photograph is by Annie Leibovitz, set in a hotel room with skull scarves draped over lamps and a skull on the bedside table. Maybe that's where he is catching up on his reading of the bible? Checking to see if he is mentioned, no doubt.

The tagline: Some journeys cannot be put into words. New York. 3 am. Blues in C.

I caught the bus home. London. 5pm. Blues in Gee.

Link: Keith Richards for Louis Vuitton, Wednesday 12 March 2008

advice

"You know what I would do if I were in your place? I'd drink from the milk basin of the Milky Way; I'd swallow comets; I'd lunch on dawn; I'd dine on day and I'd sup on night; I'd invite myself, splendid table-companion that I am, to the banquet of all the glories, and I'd salute God as my host! I'd work up a magnificent hunger, an enormous thirst, and I'd race through the drunken spaces between the spheres singing the fearsome drinking song of eternity."

From the spirit of Galileo to exiled writer, Victor Hugo (1802–1885) during a séance.

Good advice. Must start tonight.


Link: From Conversations with Eternity: The Forgotten Masterpiece of Victor Hugo.
Link: Bruce Nauman, "The True Artist Helps the World by Revealing Mystic Truths" 1967

SoKo: "I wanna look like a tiger"

If you only listen to one Parisian ukelele player this year, make sure it's SoKo. Especially, if you are like me, always pondering humanity's animal nature while jumping on a mattress like a 5- year-old with Attention Deficit Disorder (and allergic to everything in modern life). How many times have I sung out in joy the relative benefits of being a tiger rather than a monkey? SoKo addresses this eternal question in her cute and slightly awkward English. Brilliant of you.

OK, even if you aren't like me, how can you not like a song with these lyrics?

“I will never love you more than my boyfriend
when I was 14. Even though he's now an asshole.”
("I will never love you more")

She hasn't got an album out yet but you can listen to "I will never love you more", "I think I'm pregnant" and "I wanna look like a tiger," on her myspace page. That's summer sorted then.

Link: SoKo myspace page
Link: Monkey taunts tiger Chinese video on youtube

Secretions magnifique: blood, sex - magic?

What does a perfume that smells of blood, sweat, saliva and sperm smell like? Harvey Nichols in Knightsbridge is the only place in London selling this "exclusive" scent by Etat Libre d`Orange. I jumped on the (not-so-fragrant) tube to find out.

In the perfume section, Secretions magnifique is easy to find. How many perfumes in Harvey Nichols feature a school boy drawing of a cock? This is anti-perfume; I get it. Ingredients: agreement adrenalin, agreement milk, agreement blood, iris, coconut (?), sandalwood...etc.

Here goes. I spray it on my wrist; my friend jumps a metre back.

Trauma in a Bottle

Do you know what broken bones and blood smells like? It all flooded back. Nine years ago – after a few drinks, we crossed the road and my friend was hit by a car. Blood poured from the crack in his forehead. I held his head up, to keep him talking, while we waited for the ambulance. The traffic passed around us. It was nearly midnight, but the bitumen was still warm from the day.

Smell is the most primitive of the senses. I was shocked a perfume could provoke this deep, visceral memory. This is not hyperbole; it felt shocking. Yet the perfume presents itself as an intellectual concept: magnificent secretions.

I tried to smell my wrist again - I wanted to keep an open mind, maybe it will change into something else? - but it literally made my stomach turn. All I could "smell" was confusion, panic, flashing sirens, exhaust fumes and too much alcohol thrown into the mix. Perhaps, it was just me: but could it smell better on another person?

Whatever. I had to get it off; this smell, this memory. Even the expensive Harvey Nichols' bathroom soap didn't help the nausea – and worst of all – I could not get the smell off my skin.

After I calmed down a bit I couldn't help but thinking, who would like this? Perhaps the sado-masochist in your life who owns everything. Although at £75 you'd want to be stinking rich.

Personally, I'd rather a night out, wake up next to some take-out trash in a dirty bed, still in my clothes from the night before, smelling of tequila and stale cigarettes, catch the humid tube to work, hungover, with my nose smashed up against some sweaty businessman's armpit. Now how do we bottle that?

Link: New perfume smells of semen and sweat - London Metro

obligatory Keith Richards quote

Keith in a tree (like a tiger! grrr)

Interviewer: Steve Van Zandt told me that you can never quite remember the feeling of walking on-stage in front of thousands of people, and that’s why it’s still exciting to do.

Keith Richards: That’s right. You just hope that it’s there, and up until now, it always has been. There’s a certain energy when a band gets together - open the cage and let the tigers out.


Two obsessions meet: Keith and tigers!


I'm so happy I might just have to climb a tree or something.


Link: Uncut Magazine, The Rolling Stones Cover Story, April 2008, p38

Mystery hum

"Listen closely, and you'll hear the Earth humming - in not just one note, but two. The source of this second signal is a mystery. For around a decade we've known about Earth's quiet 'vertical' hum, probably caused by the steady thumping of deep waves on the ocean floor. Now a team in Germany has discovered a second 'horizontal' note, too, and nobody knows what's causing this new signal."

And I thought it was from standing too close to the amps, too often. What a relief: it's just the Earth singing.

Link: New Scientist, Mystery hum, 23 February 2008

In Wonderland: Screaming Tea Party, Bar Rumba

"At any rate I'll never go THERE again!' said Alice as she picked her way through the wood. `It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!'

- Alice in Wonderland

Wednesday night. I am alone, both big and small at the same time like Alice down the Rabbit hole; I'm at Bar Rumba in Shaftesbury Avenue. "Drink Me?" asks Alice to the bottle. Oh yeah, I think I will, I'm in the mood for a riddle.

But every time I try to leave for the bar, I can't – what if I miss something? - what are they doing? Oh, I know this song, I think... what's going to happen next? Alice might not like a Tea Party, but I do. Especially one like this: a peculiarly-deranged, Screaming Tea Party.

This is not your average fairytale: it is a hyper collection of vicious riffs and scary lullabies. The band is based in London, but it feels like a trip inside the Manga story, Abandon the Old in Tokyo. The bassist/singer is in a sexy sarong, yet the guitarist is shredding his gaffa-taped axe and wears a black kerchief over his face. Then there's the very lovely kawaii-des-ne? girl on the drums that sorta makes your heart melt.

Every expectation is berzerked: kamikaze-like jumping from amps, old punk favourites readdressed like they OWN it, yet out of nowhere, a touch of the cymbal so soft it's painful; like a sweet lotion after an aural thrashing. The set itself became a fascinating riddle: Death Egg, a futuristic lullaby contrasts with the London punk redux of Between air and air. Like all good songs they are familiar, yet new and uncanny; I found myself saying, in my best nineteenth century voice, "That is very curious!"

I didn't leave the set for a drink... which is a very good sign at a gig, even if it is rather strange for a tea party. But it makes perfect sense at a Screaming Tea Party. What will they do next? Curious and curiouser – and, unlike Alice, I definitely want to go again. And get a bit stupid.

Link: Screaming Tea Party's myspace

Camden Town is burning down

"And to London, this is for London cause Camden Town ain't burning down."
- Amy Winehouse, Grammy speech for Best Album.

I don't even like seeing a pub closed after 11pm – let alone burned to the ground...

After my first thought – nope, it wasn't me – my second thought was, if Amy can start again, and look wonderfuckingful at the Grammys after her stint at rehab (and away from the front page of London Lite), then there's plenty of hope for her favourite gin-joint, the Hawley Arms.

As Noel Fielding from The Mighty Boosh told NME today, "The Hawley will bounce back stronger than ever I'm sure."

And no jokes about crack pipes. Leave the girl alone (I won't hear it).

Link: Amy Winehouse shocked, speechless - wins Grammy

Stagger Lee

Milo Waterfield's short film Stagger Lee

Stagger Lee turns up in songs like a recurring nightmare. He is the original bad motherfucker.

The story has been told and re-told by Lloyd Price, Ma Rainey, Sidney Bechet, Bob Dylan, Taj Mahal, Duke Ellington, Woody Guthrie, Bill Haley & His Comets, Wilson Pickett, Ike and Tina Turner, Fats Domino, Doc Watson, Dr. John, Tom Rush, Travis MacRae, Professor Longhair and later, by The Clash ("Wrong 'Em Boyo") and The Grateful Dead (where Billy's wife hunts down Stagolee for revenge and shoots him in the balls.)

The story goes that Stag Lee killed his friend Billy Lyons or "De Lion" in 1895 over a Stetson hat. Each songs tells its own version of this charismatic pimp and cardsharp. Here's the original hat incident as re-counted in the St Louis Missouri Globe-Democrat in 1895:

William Lyons, 25, a levee hand, was shot in the abdomen yesterday evening at 10 o'clock in the saloon of Bill Curtis, at Eleventh and Morgan Streets, by Lee Sheldon, a carriage driver. Lyons and Sheldon were friends and were talking together. Both parties, it seems, had been drinking and were feeling in exuberant spirits. The discussion drifted to politics, and an argument was started, the conclusion of which was that Lyons snatched Sheldon's hat from his head. The latter indignantly demanded its return. Lyons refused, and Sheldon withdrew his revolver and shot Lyons in the abdomen. When his victim fell to the floor Sheldon took his hat from the hand of the wounded man and coolly walked away. He was subsequently arrested and locked up at the Chestnut Street Station. Lyons was taken to the Dispensary, where his wounds were pronounced serious. Lee Sheldon is also known as 'Stag' Lee.

By the 1910s, the story of Stag Lee was well-known in African-American communities along the lower Mississippi River. Mississippi John Hurt, from the Delta, did the first recording in the 1920s talking about "that bad man, cruel Stagger Lee". The story then migrated to the mountains where musicians played it on porches in the traditional string-band style of the traditional Appalachian ballad.

Po-lice officer, how can it be?

You can 'rest everybody but cruel Stagolee

That bad man, oh cruel Stagolee

– Mississisppi John Hurt

My favourite, and most twisted, version is Nick Cave's Murder Ballads (1996). According to Nick Cave, talking in Stag Lee's voice, he was an openly gay criminal, who killed the macho boyfriend of the prostitute Nellie Bound.

What will be the next incarnation of this folk anti-hero? I'd like to know. It's a story that changes shape as much as the Devil. But one thing's for sure, it's the Devil - and Stagger Lee – with the best tunes.

Link: Old Blue Bus: Down Home with Stagger Lee

Rich hippie rock star

Keith Richards in Morocco with a local kif, 1967

Usually smell evokes our deepest memories of the past; this perfume unburies the deepest dreams for my future.

The dream is always the same. One day I will buy a palace in Morocco with 16 rooms, or enough for all my friends from around the world to crash whenever they "need a break". I'll spend the day in slippers and kaftans, with wafts of this perfume floating behind me in every room. Sharing a shisha and endless glasses of fresh mint tea in the shade on those bright Tangier afternoons. You'll never know who will turn up, sometimes Paul and Jane Bowles will fang by and we'll have a Naked Lunch... Who knows? But I do know: I'll be wearing this –

"Racy, dangerous, sensual tropical floral with extracts of rare Indonesian flowers, Madagascan Vanilla Bean and Clove Bud."

Ooooh, I so want it. Now.

Link: Rich Hippie Rock Star

RIP Jackie Orszaczky - peace brother

Jackie Orszaczky and Tina Harrod

This morning I was told of the death of Sydney funk legend, and friend, Jackie Orzasky.

What a loss to the Sydney music community. The depth of his music was only matched by the depth of his generosity and vision. He nurtured the best talents in the city. Tuesday nights at the Newtown RSL was one of the best nights in the country. You never knew who would jump up - just to have the chance to play with Jack. The atmosphere was always electrifying.

My favourite (and humble) memory of him is when we first met. We were standing outside The Macquarie Hotel, having a cigarette during a break. He turned to me and said, "are you a musician, too?"

I stammered, embarrassed, terrified - "um, no". My friend jumped in (bless her) and said, "Yes she is. J plays the piano".

"Well bring it down next time! We'll have a jam!"

There are many great memories, nights, songs of Jackie. My heart goes out to Tina Harrod, his inspiring wife, and their daughter.

Jack would never say good bye, instead he'd put his hands in a prayer position and bow down to you. Just like some funkadelic Indian swarmi, he honoured the god-like self in you. The same part that we share with all humankind and find in the best music, and that, so often, involved Jack.

PEACE BROTHER


Link: The official Jackie Orszaczky website

Oz Clarke & Michael Broadbent on wine, women and song...

Imagine my excitement when I saw this headline on the January edition of Decanter Magazine. Two wine industry legends promoting my blog? On the front cover of Decanter?

Alas, no. But here's a lovely description by Oz Clarke, from the article, about his favourite wine. It more than made up for the dashed hope:

"People always ask the best wine I've ever had. I tend to think about which girl I was drinking it with. One of the best wines I ever had was with a gorgeous girl I eloped with by train to Tuscany. We went into this little taverna, and asked for some red wine. The guy went out the back, got a really old scruffy litre bottle, went up to a vat, and squirted out this purply, foaming, prickly, sour, six-moth-old iwne, put a little cap on it and said "there you are". It cost next to nothing. We bought some salami, cheese and bread, lay out in the fields in the sun, and it was one of the best drinking experiences I've ever had."

Link: Decanter Magazine

The fifth taste: umami

There's more to taste than sweet, sour, bitter and salty. There is also umami: the fifth taste. What I'm always searching for in a wine, in everything.

"Both the word and the concept are Japanese, and in Japan are of some antiquity. Umami is hard to translate, to judge by the number of English words that have been suggested as equivalents, such as savoury, essence, pungent, deliciousness, and meaty. It’s sometimes associated with a feeling of perfect quality in a taste, or of some special emotional circumstance in which a taste is experienced. It is also said to involve all the senses, not just that of taste. There’s more than a suggestion of a spiritual or mystical quality about the word."

Link: The fifth taste

This wicked tongue

Wicked women and wicked tongues, Pt 1: the Hindu Goddess Kali

"Her tongue is out as a symbol of sudden embarassment. The story goes that while in a frenzy of destruction, no other God or Goddess could stop Her. Finally her somewhat detached husband, Shiva, descended, and lay down in Her path. She accidentally stepped on His chest, was overcome with shame, and was forced to stop destroying."

Link: Kali Puja at Chanduni Baari, Oct 2006

Detox

Yeah, detox is a good idea. In theory. But it's my birthday in January. That means only one thing. Time for Champagne.

This year, I'm as old as Jesus. Quite an achievement in itself. Granted, I haven't achieved as much as Jesus H. Christ. But you know, there's always February. Life is too short.

Then there's Easter. I can hear the tap, tap, tappity tap of the crucifying nails already...

Top 5 wines - Dec '07

number 5: Ailes de Paloumey Haut-Medoc 2003

Like Sienna Miller drunk: otherwise stylish except for this moment. This Bordeaux needs a few more years in the bottle. But still beautiful now, despite the lapse.

number 4: Domaine de L'Amandine Cote du Rhone 2004

If this was fashion, it'd be a life vest. In the easy-to-reach section of the supermarket, this is a trusty Cote du Rhone that will save you if you are in immediate danger (of not having anything good to drink on a cold night).

number 3: Cote de Beaune-Villages 2005 from Bouchard Pere & Fils

Fun! Usually I don't bother with the crap on the back label, but this time it rang true: "Notre but, c'est votre plaisir." Our goal is your pleasure. Simple but nice. Like two kisses on the cheek.

number 2: Knappstein Clare Valley Shiraz 2003


A very classy wine to wrap yourself up with on a cold winter night. The 15% alcohol will keep you warm, if the christmas pudding characters do not. It's theatre (from the balcony).

Number 1: Chateauneuf du Pape Roger Sabon Reserve 2003

Givenchy show, Paris Fashion week 2007

Something symphonic. The character just built and built. I even felt sad at the end of the half bottle (I could only afford a half bottle) because it hinted at the potential that could have kept developing...

Overall, a good month for red wine!

'The Musician' Majella Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2005

What can I say about musicians? Erm, the less said, the better. Better talk about wine. It's hard for me to separate the music from the wine... oh, familiar territory.

Majella 'The Musician' Cabernet Sauvignon Shiraz 2005

Why do I like this wine? The complexity is incredible for a wine so young; hints of chocolate (my favourite!) and brambly undertones. It's big and it's in-yer-face but isn't that what you need on a cold winter's night? It's stunning Coonawarra with hints of eucalypt and sea spray, and it knocks most wines at £8.99 out of the water.

However, for all the joy it brings, there is a terrible, tragic story behind the name of this wine. It is named after Matthew Lynn (son of the owners' of Majella), killed early in 2005 in a hit and run accident. A 20-year-old who wanted to make music his life, hence the name, and it is a wonderful tribute.

“Without music life would be a mistake.” as Nietzsche said. It's a matter of separating the Who and the What. Music and Boyfriend. Wine and Music.

I don't know much, but I know...

I love you?

This wine is a freak (amazingly good value) and very, very reliable; a good musician showing up to the gig and just tearing it up, every time.

Paris Hilton's Prosecco in a Can

A bit rich


I once loved Prosecco. But now Paris Hilton has her own dodgy tinny, Prosecco Parties are forever tragic. Sorry girls. It's all over.

The prosecco is imaginatively titled 'Rich'. Just like Paris. Except with taste. And depth. And substance. Etc, etc.

Paris brings out sparkling wine in a can, Holey Moley, 13 December 2007