Am I so out of touch? No. It’s the children who are wrong

I used to say that I’d spend 6 months of each year obsessed with music, and six months completely detached. Then that became more of a 3/9 split in favour of disinterestedness. Now, it’s amazing if I spend a solid week a year thinking about, researching, writing about or bloody listening to new music. And it takes almost nothing to get me all disillusioned again.

The last time I took my ball and went home was over The Life of Pablo. A bit of context: I felt like I’d been fighting a seven year battle (since the stupid Taylor Swift thing… I mean, the first stupid Taylor Swift thing) defending Kanye as an artist against people completely incapable of separating the person from the product, or people unwilling to see hip-hop or even pop as art in the first place. (I can’t believe we’re still having that argument 30 years after Paid In Full.)

Through all the Kardashian bullshit, the second Swift saga, the Glasonbury appearance, the Bill Cosby stupidity, the Wiz Khalifa feud, the seemingly endless stream of ageing white men – Billy Corgan, David Crosby, Brian McFadden, Liam Gallagher, Corey Taylor – being dragged out to hate on him, I stuck to my guns. This was a guy who had revolutionised a genre not once but twice, who had made at least four all time classic records, a voracious mind who absorbs the aesthetics of everything from Le Corbusier lamps to Chicago drill to Jodorowsky movies. (Fun story: West apparently went out of his way for a chance to meet Jodo, who… had no idea who he was, but read his tarot for him anyway.)

Then Life of Pablo dropped and… I didn’t get it. It wasn’t a triumph of abrasive minimalism like Yeezus or luxurious maximalism like MBDTF. It wasn’t a gospel- or string arrangement-fuelled game changer like The College Dropout. It had a lot of… stuff. Stuff that didn’t seem to gel or hang together all that well. The production was no longer meticulous – at times, it was downright messy. It also featured second-raters like Ty Dolla Sign, who would never have been on Kanye’s finely honed radar five years ago, but who West met at a Kylie Jenner party. (He’s since collaborated with the completely unremarkable Tyga, Jenner’s boyfriend – further evidence for the theory that being part of that family of worthless vampires is actively withering Kanye’s talents and judgement.)

He then committed the annoying act of recalling TLoP, tinkering with it further, and reissuing it, meaning there are at least two Life of Pablos (Lives of Pablo?) out there. That probably annoyed me more than it should have. One of the best samples on the record was of Arthur Russell, a man notorious for incessant revision of his music and leaving everything unfinished – it would be too easy to make the comparison with West himself, who claimed to have spent 5,000 hours on Power, a 1 minute 42 second track. I should give TLoP another chance – but I’m an old man (28) now, and I don’t understand Tidal.

I also don’t understand how it is that I still think of Untrue by Burial, the last contemporary artist I really proselytised for (back when anything labelled dub-step was automatically considered to be the work of Satan) as being cutting edge when it came out nearly ten years ago. I listened to it yesterday, and it… hasn’t dated that well. I think copycatting has a lot to do with it – I’m looking at you, Synkro.

But back in 2007, when I was reading about hauntology and futurist musicology and spectral ambient in the backpages of Dr Sleepless by Warren Ellis, this album was everything . Now it’s just the Millennial version of dad-rock.

Same with everything else we used to love, everything that was once fresh and new and bleeding edge. We grew up on Radiohead, the Marshall Mathers LP, Dre’s 2001, Godspeed You! Black Emperor, Joanna Newsom, Iron & Wine, Devandra Banhart, Sigur Ros, LCD Soundsystem, Cat Power, Hot Chip, Portishead, Animal Collective, Wilco and Kanye. This was the stuff we used to hold up when the Boomers said “music today is shit.” Now, people are fucking nostalgic about the Arctic fucking Monkeys. People get all watery eyed about The Strokes – “remember when Is This It came out and everything was going to be OK?”

And the kids are listening to J Cole, Kendrick Lamar, Young Thug, Beach House, Adele, A$AP Rocky, Drake, Flying Lotus, Sun Kil Moon, Frank Ocean, and Tame Impala – not your post-rock, g-funk, freak-folk, hauntological crap, grandad. Get with the times.

Of life and other stuff

My uncle died this week. Or maybe it was two weeks ago; I don’t know. He was 49 years old, and although we hadn’t been on good terms for a few years, he was a big part of my childhood – indeed, aside from my parents, it’s difficult to think of another human being I’ve actually known who has had such a profound influence on my development as a person.

It wouldn’t be right to say he introduced me to comic books – that honour probably goes to the Batman animated series and the associated media. But he did introduce me to Chris Claremont’s X-Men run, which is a huge deal when you’re seven or eight years old. This was many many years before the Hugh Jackman movies and back when Marvel superheroes – if you can imagine such a time – were virtually unheard of in the UK, and even in the US were probably a niche cultural unit.

Perhaps more importantly, he was later responsible for exposing my impressionable mind to Alan Moore and Grant Morrison, and a further alt-cultural smorgasbord in my teens. It’s not every day the person who got you into Clive Barker, H.P. Lovecraft, Camille Paglia, Saki, Neil Gaiman, Iain Banks, Angela Carter, Oscar Wilde, the Marquis de Sade, 70s Tom Baker era Doctor Who, Quentin Tarantino, Dario Argento, Mario Bava, Ken Russell (especially The Devils), and V.I.M.’s sub-bass club classic Maggie’s Last Party passes away. I remember having to consciously fight against his influence in my early twenties to develop my own independent intellectual arena, but a lot of these writers and artists I still love and still view through the critical lens he lent me.

As I mentioned, we hadn’t patched things up when he died after a stupid argument a few years ago, and I don’t have any lessons to impart on that front. When I knew him best he was funny, witty, and was able to say very intelligent things that could genuinely shock you into a different way of thinking about a piece of low or high culture. The circumstances of his death are deeply saddening to me and I wish one of us had picked up the fucking phone years ago.

Well, there it is. The base goes on. Rave, rave, rave against the dying of the light.

I don’t know much about art but I know what I like… 

I hate to sound like a Top Gear-viewing father-of-two on a daytrip to the Tate Modern, but I realised today that I don’t understand contemporary poetry. 

I read a lot of it, too, because poetry is important to me and I want to keep up with what other people are doing. So I skim Ambit, The Rialto, Antiphon etc. I admit I also want to find out what is being published, because I always think I should submit more of my own work.

And I don’t get it. Any of it. They’re all just short stories about nothing, written in very short paragraphs. There’s no consistent stanza – everything is formatted like e e cummings with a broken TAB key. There’s definitely no metre. And Jesus Christ, if you think you’ve found a rhyme you must have imagined it. 

And I know poetry doesn’t have to rhyme. I know there is such a thing as free verse, and there’s nothing wrong with that. But when did everything except non rhyming free verse disappear? 

When did every poem become about waking up in New York and checking your iPhone while musing on how disconnected you are from modern life? Or about reconciling your second generation immigrant status with the fact you’re middle class as fuck?

Oh God. I’ve done it. I’ve become the reactionary sophist prick I’ve always feared. 

I think the last Anglophone poet I could read and understand consistently was Auden. Fucking hell, that’s such a twatty thing to say, but it’s true. I could understand him because he was testing and trying to see where his skills and his experiences fit into the great tradition of verse extending back to Homer. He thought of his predecessors as colleagues. He wanted to have something to say to them.

Now, it’s like every poem is about how do I fit into the contemporary. How do I find my agency in a sea of Starbucks and Uber apps and Apple products? (The DeLilloification of verse?) Or, can I find the meaning of life in a quaint relationship I had with a mildly eccentric friend?

There’s probably an element of jealousy here. I feel like saying, I want to write about the universe, gods and demons, love and death, darkness and art, time’s impermanence. I stress over every bloody word I put down on paper. And you’re getting paid for prosing about drinking tea in a cafe in the afternoon. 

I’m going to stop there before I crystallise into an English professor at a dusty 19th century boarding school, the unseen villain of Dead Poets Society. 

The Evening’s Redness in the West 

Compared to 2016, during which I read more than a book a week, I’ve barely touched a tome this year. That changed a fortnight ago, when I needed something to occupy my brain while hiding in a Marrakech hotel room from the North African sun. I’d brought with me Cormac McCarthy’s 1985 epic Blood Meridian, a novel I really only speed-read about eight years or so ago, so it was a relatively fresh experience. 

I’m not sure if I have much to add to the critical furore over the book, which is chiefly centred around the prose and imagery. I’ve seen Mccarthy variously described as the greatest living stylist in any language and the heir to Faulkner. Harold Bloom’s general panegyrics probably do not need repeating here. Blood Meridian has been hailed as both his masterpiece and the best American novel by anyone after 1950. 

There’s a great deal about his writing I find hypnotic and fascinating. He constantly reminds me of a something once written about Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying: epic as the Old Testament, American as Huckleberry Finn. (Unlike Faulkner, McCarthy is also as bloody as the Hebrew Bible.) But there are frequently moments I find myself saying it loud, “Oh, come on” and wanting to reach for a red pen. McCarthy is decidedly not a purveyor of le mot juste, and sometimes the excessive sizzle denotes an overdone steak. There are even times when I cannot, for the life of me, understand what it is McCarthy is trying to say, and like him I am a devotee of Joyce – from whom, it must be said, McCarthy learned all the wrong lessons. Judging by his interviews, he seems to think Joyce’s greatness lies in his lack of punctuation… But that’s only true of Molly Bloom’s soliloquy. True, as early as Dubliners Joyce sacked off speech marks, but he never possessed the terror of commas McCarthy ascribes him. Furthermore, Dubliners is an exhibition of precise language, whereas so much of Blood Meridian is just an accumulation of syntactically loose jetsam. 

(I don’t have a copy of the book with me, but I can return with examples.)

I don’t mind idiosyncracy in a writer, especially not when such power can be derived from it. McCarthy’s writing conveys real menace – Judge Holden is a genuinely frightening and brilliantly realised character, although anyone calling him “the most terrifying […] in all of American literature” as Harold Bloom did has never encountered Dr Benway. 

(In fact, all of the nonsense about whether or not the Judge is Satan misses the point obvious to a comic book reader: Holden is actually Darkseid, just like Benway is Desaad.)

Which brings me to another unfavourable and perhaps odd comparison I found myself making. Blood Meridian is, to its credit, a Hieronymous Bosch painting of the American West, but an inferior one to Burroughs’ truly revelationary Western Lands trilogy. Where McCarthy is idiosyncratic, Burroughs is experimental. Where McCarthy hints at the numinous, Burroughs eviscerates it. And where I see McCarthy as a genius and visionary amateur, Burroughs seems ever more the master – A real American Moses wandering down from Mount Sinai chewing on psychedelic cacti.

Learning Italian

Is there a word for philological wanderlusting? Whatever it is, every so often I suffer it painfully and have to have a crack at a new tongue.

In this case, the stimulant was the knowledge I will never get the full hit of Dante without at least attempting to stumble through it in the original. This is self-evident from a mere glance at the untranslated text, which hides rhymes within rhymes and stacks rhymes on top of rhymes, vs the comparatively rhymeless English of the courageous interpreter who can never give more than a flavour of Dante’s endless cascade of onos and oros and itas and ritas and ortes and elles and ivas and inas.

I’d also realised it’s generally true of the language while rolling around a few memorised lines of Petrarch in my head:

Aura che quelle chiome bionde et crespe
cercondi et movi, et se’ mossa da loro,
soavemente, et spargi quel dolce oro,
et poi ’l raccogli, e ’n bei nodi il rincrespe…

In the first line, every non-conjuctive word but one ends in the same letter. The majority of words in the text end in vowel sounds, which adds immeasurably to il dolce suono. There’s also a beautiful da-da-DUM da-DUM-da rhythm that runs through, but that’s less a linguistic feature than something unique to Petrarch’s art.

(Does anyone else short-change “Petrarch” one of his Rs when typing his name? No matter how many times I type it knowing it’s “Petrarch,” I always seem to type “Petrach” and have to backspace past the C.)

Learning Italian to read Dante and Petrarch is also one of the prescriptions for poetic mastery given by Ezra Pound. (Along with learning Chinese – I’ll leave that one alone for now.)

I’ve always said I don’t have a head for languages, but I’m not sure if it’s more true that I don’t have a head for French, which is a language I’ve been studying on and off, formally and informally, for seventeen years and I still can’t do much more than follow the gist of a conversation. A few years ago I started learning spoken Russian via Pimsleur tapes, and within a few weeks I could comfortably pass the time of day. I read a course in Gaelic at university in order to get a better grip of Irish texts, and picked up a lot in a short space of time.

Likewise, studying Italian with the Duolingo app has been a great deal of fun where French was always a chore. I’m not sure if it’s the subject matter – I’ve accidentally developed an almost A.E. Houseman*-esque contempt for French poetry beside Rimbaud, Baudelaire, and Verlaine, whereas I genuinely love Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, Foscolo, Leopardi, Ariosto and Michelangelo’s sonnets. I’ve also suffered through Sartre and Camus in French, but I find them to be bores even in translation – maybe I need to turn my attention to a true prose aesthete like Flaubert.

In any case, this may or may not all come to nothing, but hopefully it keeps the brain nice and limber if nothing else.

*An anecdote tells us Houseman once asked the great Andre Gide at dinner why it was the French have never produced any poetry of note. Gide’s response was the quite get-out-of-jail-free-card retort, “What is poetry?” But to fight this bias, I have purchased the splendid Jacques Barzun’s “Essay on French Verse: For Readers of English Poetry.”