Ten years after a happy Indiana marriage
and five years after a sad California divorce
I sold my wedding rings in Portland, Oregon
and bought a chest of drawers
older than the two of us put together.
Now, I do not say it to disrespect
the blissfully coupled, or to incur your pity
but I feel a lightness and an optimism
that my clean laundry will no longer
pile up on the bed.
Agatha Christie meets Mark Heap and (zomg) Stephen Mangan in this most recent adaptation of her 1965 mystery. A pair of witty Janes (Miss Marple plus a young protégé) help Mangan’s earnest but not-as-sharp Scotland Yard inspector investigate a pair of murders at a posh London hotel positively oozing with postwar intrigue. Heap plays the uptight and jumpy hotel manager, of course. Ridiculously convoluted and stagy denouement, of course. Expect nothing less! Hokey and wonderful.
****
SEE… riveting live shows from the extraordinary noise duo of Detroit!
SEE… stylish performance art swathed in exquisite melancholy!
SEE… Canada!
Bless this rockumentary for capturing music from The White Stripes’ 2007 tour and throwing in a geography lesson for good measure. The band endeavored to visit every province and territory of our Great Northern Neighbor, playing informal daytime gigs among larger venues, and we are taken into that Yellowknife café, Winnipeg city bus, Saskatoon bowling alley, Halifax pool hall. How refreshing that many lovely images are allowed to linger: nothing less than the Ken Burns treatment for their last waltz at the 10th anniversary show in Nova Scotia. In fact, my only complaint is the point where their songs are hacked apart and medley-ed together in any entirely unsatisfying way.
Photo: Autumn de Wilde
Most adorable fan: kid who wears horse head to concert.
Best evidence, secondary to Coffee and Cigarettes itself, that Meg and Jack White are perfect Jim Jarmusch muses: “White Moon” at the piano.
Favorite performances: “In the Cold, Cold Night” (hot!) and “Black Jack Davey” in Whitehorse and “Catch Hell Blues” and definitely “I’m Slowly Turning Into You” and… Aw, now I just want to watch it all over again.
Fascinating! Electrifying! Overwhelming! Must-see in splendid 2D!
****
(I am tempted to assign an additional half star for the generous footage of Jack White in a kilt but don’t want to get, you know, carried away.)
It is tempting to think that, if only the words we used to describe the contents of writings were clear and precise in meaning, the intractable difficulties of content-accessibility would vanish or be largely overcome. … But no sharpness of tools would eliminate difficulty; greater sharpness might increase difficulty. For instance, I know more or less clearly what hostility is, that is, the word “hostility” has a fairly sharp meaning for me, but far from a perfectly sharp and precise meaning. Now if I were to supply myself with an exactly defined concept, got by explication of my imprecise notion, I might find that I could never use the new concept in describing any actual piece of writing; the concept might be too sharp ever to find application. There would be instances of hostility (in the new sense) that I could recognize, but no instances of writings on hostility that I could recognize, for no one would have written on hostility (as I now would understand it). If people write on what are for them ill-defined phenomena, a correct description of their subjects must reflect the ill-definedness.
–Patrick Wilson, Two Kinds of Power, “Subjects and the Sense of Position” (92)
subject description
nobody knows what the hell
they’re talking about
Cool groups I might have joined, with illustrative songs, had I only applied myself in high school band, where the other percussionists monopolized the drums and forced me to play xylophone and glockenspiel (*shakes fist*) because I’d come through a junior high program with compulsory bells and they hadn’t:
*except I wasn’t to high school yet
†except I wasn’t born yet
This is what happens when I become distracted while trying to study the conceptual design of languages of description for the organization of information and resources.
First it was Allison Carlyle’s pleasantly accessible article on FRBR as a conceptual model that set me jonesin’ for Waking Life, Richard Linklater’s slacker philoso-fest. And pining for (big sigh) a successful model of Love, one that contains all the answers.
Of all of the things that a model can model, abstractions may be the most difficult. One reason is that the act of modeling, particularly the type of modeling that the creators of FRBR used, is often an attempt to make something that is abstract into something that is, at least in some senses, concrete. That is, it is an attempt to make the presence of an abstraction knowable by identifying the things that point to its existence.
To give an example outside of cataloging, imagine trying to model something like love. Love is an abstraction, but it is something we all know and can recognize. Exactly how do we do that? To make a model of love that can be used in research or in some other kind of rationalized practice or process, we operationalize it. Operationalizing makes it possible to observe, to count, or to verify something like love. However, operationalizing something very abstract like love is not only difficult, it can cross the line into the comical. For instance, because we cannot see love, we have to identify things that are observable to indicate the presence or existence of love…[B]ut no matter how many of them we come up with, any model of love gives a rather sorry representation of the real thing.
(Allyson Carlyle, “Understanding FRBR as a Conceptual Model: FRBR and the Bibliographic Universe“)
(Kim Krizan on the abstraction of language, Waking Life)
Now it is the FRBR entity-relationship model itself, plus Patrick Wilson’s assessment of the most appropriate level for exerting bibliographical control, that has tangled with the delicious chewy center of a certain rhapsody in blue.
For all these reasons [i.e. texts are valued for more than the information they contain; statements often can be understood or appraised only in terms of their context], and more that might be adduced, it will not be advantageous to make our account of bibliographical control apply generally to units smaller than whole texts and copies of them…The problem of bibliographical control is not simply one of locating items of information, and not one to be solved by attempting to analyze writings into units of information.
(Patrick Wilson, Two Kinds of Power: An Essay on Bibliographical Control)
And if you’re saying good-bye
Please don’t you think me bitter
For recalling every rhyme
From the book, the page, the line, the word, the letter(The White Stripes, “Wasting My Time“)
Yes, here in my home office, the bibliographic universe collided with the universe of emotions, and all hell broke loose:
I guess this model demonstrates that:
Ciao, bambina
Ti voglio bene da morire
–Domenico Modugno, “Piove”Sta’ zitto, mascalzone
Che cosa dici a me
–Canzoniere Grecanico Salentino, “Le tre sorelle”
It has been a month-long Italian love fest over at David Byrne Radio, such a fabulous soundtrack to my quotidian routine that I am sad to see April wane. The feeling is tempered with anticipation of the May playlist and the pleasant distraction of trying to acquire some of the current music for my permanent collection.
Italia II features a couple of enchanting sirens from the islands: Sardinian Marisa Sannia, old-school; Sicilian Carmen Consoli, new-school. The way Consoli utters “compassionevole” in “Il pendio dell’abbandono” just slays me. (”Mio zio” is also a lovely song albeit a creepy subject.) And Sannia, man, does she croon a mean lullaby! My favorites are probably “Chie So” and “Nanas e Janas.”
It was, however, Canzoniere Grecanico Salentino wailing “Sta’ zitto, mascalzone” in “Le tre sorelle” that initially made me sit still and listen. The lyrics of this folk song are a swoon and a half.
It gets even better. The playlist is peppered with Paolo Conte, some familiar tunes but mostly songs that are new to me. Back in 1996, not long after becoming obsessed with Rain Dogs and Closing Time, I heard him dubbed “the Tom Waits of Italy.” That endorsement was what it took for me to brave a Bolognese music shop for the first time.
The classic crooning of Domenico Modugno is just icing on the panettone. It cracks me up how David Byrne speculates on the meaning of “Volare.” The juxtaposition of blue paint and flying leads him to believe it could be a tribute to Yves Klein, a French artist who has his own shade of blue and is apparently responsible for Le Saut dans le vide. When I was 18, I clipped that photo from a magazine, laminated it, and stuck it to my dorm room wall alongside A Clockwork Orange poster, because I thought it could be a tribute to Alex’s attempt to snuff it.
Three legendary rock guitarists walk into a bar: a masochist, a hedonist, and a narcissist.
…
That’s all I got. There is no punch line. Kind of like this film.
The premise is that Jack White, Jimmy Page, and The Edge will come together in one room to talk shop, jam, and as a result, “it might get loud” and minds will be blown. Turns out most of the time is spent with the musicians in isolation, speaking about their personal guitar history and philosophy. Archival footage accompanies the Page and Edge scenes; in the case of Jack White, freaky animation and performance art. The result is an uneven mess that might have worked as a hyperactive MTV special, but a feature-length theatrical release? The best moments are all there in the trailer. And the deleted scenes where they actually play guitar together (Jack White teaching the others “Seven Nation Army,” what a hoot!)
Not that those individual stories weren’t fascinating. If anything they made me greedy for a complete film devoted to each artist. Overall the effect was one of wanting to drop everything to listen to Boy and War and Led Zeppelin I, II, III, IV, and to watch these three performances by the White Stripes over and over again.
*** for not living up to its trailer or the greatness of its subjects.
Well, here we go again
You’ve found yourself a friend that knows you wellBut no matter what you do
You’ll always feel as though you tripped and fellSo steady as she goes
I have been hopelessly obsessed with this Raconteurs song. And the surest way I have found to quash an obsession is to attempt to write about it. The exquisite appeal of a perceived masterpiece, tethered to the base expression of an amateur? Buzz kill guaranteed. So, “Steady As She Goes“:
[link]
Okay, first of all, a leading bass line is a reliable hook in the heart. In this case, the rhythm section modestly lures me in, the twang of the guitar beckons… then those whiny vocals pounce, and the trap is sprung. I love how the catchy jostle of the verse releases into the charging momentum of the chorus. Ride the wave of emotion, whee! The inevitable yearning for steadfast companionship. The nauseating dread that it will sour. Because, to review: I found myself a husband and settled down. I tried the simple life in a quiet town. Now what? Steady as she goes…
Besides all those good old-fashioned desires and delusions played out in the song, several other of my weaknesses are present and accounted for in the video. Solid Midwestern boys of a certain age. The practiced shagginess and affected moodiness of adorable musicians. The dry humor and laconic blues of Jim Jarmusch (who is responsible for wrangling the skittish cattle and claustrophobic farmhouse). So, giddy on up! But steady as she goes…
2010-02-23, The Valley Library, 5th Floor at H1-40
Katie Katie Katie Katie KatieKatie Katie
I can’t concentrate
THINGS WILL GET BETTER
When we’re all DEAD.
Magna Cum Loud.
Shuddup & STUDY!
πΒΦ are fat
Oregon, California’s West Virginia
California, Oregon’s Mexico
Fuck College Forever
I ♥ Studying
not