Better Than the Original: On the Joy of Cover Versions

Alien Ant Farm lead vocalist Dryden Mitchell and Bubbles lookalike in the video 

for their 2001 version of Michael Jackson's 'Smooth Criminal' (1988)

 

 

I. 

 

If there's one thing I like, it's a great cover version; that is to say, a new interpretation of a song which exposes the fallacy that the original recording, or one closely associated with a well-known artist, is always the best. 

 

The fact is, there is no definitive version of a song and, in as much as a song is usually written before it is ever performed or recorded, all versions are essentially covers. 

 

Even the songwriter or composer, cannot claim to exercise complete control or final authority over his work; la mort de l'auteur isn't just a phenomenon within the world of literature, you know (or, at any rate, certainly deserves to be extended into other areas, including popular music, where - even in a post-punk environment - too much reverence is paid to the artist and they still unironically hang a star on their dressing room door).  

 

And so, just as the singer must release the song from the page on which it's written, so must the listener also liberate the song from the recording and refuse any limit upon how they hear or understand it. The magic and the meaning of a song depends on the impressions of the listener, rather than the passion of the performer, or the intentions of the songwriter.

 

Anyhoo, having briefly set out my theoretical reasons for loving cover versions, I'd like now to discuss what makes a great cover version ...

 

 

II.    

 

Having selected an old song that one wishes to cover, it's important to remember that one isn't merely obliged to rework or reinterpret it; one must also find a way to update the song so that it sounds fresh and contemporary. Avoiding what Barthes calls the mere stereotype of novelty, one must make New (which is another way of saying make sexy).  

 

And whilst it's respectful to give a nod in some manner to the artist one is covering, one must not remain unduly faithful; high-fidelity is undesirable and one doesn't want to be seen simply as a tribute act and a cover needs to be more than a cheap imitation or the next best thing compared to the original. Ultimately, as Neil Tennant once said: the cover has got to sound like you [1]. 

 

It also needs to be aimed at a different (and possibly a wider) audience than the (so-called) original. Forget about crowd-pleasing.      

 

 

III.

 

It only remains for me now to provide some examples of great cover versions - or, at any rate, cover songs which I happen to like ... 

 

Initially, I was going to provide a list or, if you like, a chart. But then a top ten became a top twenty and a top twenty a top forty ... And so, rather than do this, I've decided to simply mention several of my favourite cover versions and discuss one of these in detail.

 

Let's begin with two songs that I have already written posts on: 'My Way' by Sid Vicious, released as a single by the Sex Pistols in 1978 [2], and 'Common People' by William Shatner, on the album Has Been (2004). Both of these tracks are perfect cover versions: as I explain here and here.

The next track I'd like to mention is Serge Gainsbourg's amusing version of 'Smoke Gets In You Eyes', on the album Rock Around the Bunker (1975), which contained songs relating to the Third Reich and which drew upon Gainsbourg's experiences as a Jewish child in Nazi occupied France. 

 

Along with nine original songs, Gainsbourg included this cover of 'Smoke Gets in Your Eyes', written by Otto Harbach and Jerome Kern the 1933 Broadway musical Roberta, because it was said to be one of Eva Braun's favourites. Click here to play.   

Speaking of French singers ... I would like to also give a shout out to Marie Laforêt and her 1966 version of the Rolling Stones' hit 'Paint It Black' - retitled as 'Marie-douceur, Marie-colère' - click here. As the song is also given completely new lyrics, it's arguably a different work altogether - though the tune's the same [3].

 

Then there's Siouxsie and the Banshees working their alchemy with the Beatles track 'Dear Pudence', released as a single in 1983 [4]. It would be the band's biggest UK hit, reaching number 3 in the charts (much to their surprise). What amuses me is the manner in which they add a sense of darkness and menace to the original hippie vibe (despite the sunny blue skies). Click here to play.  

 

Finally, there's arguably the greatest of all covers: Alien Ant Farm's punky nu-metal version of 'Smooth Criminal' by Michael Jackson, released as a single from the album Anthology (2001): click here. 

 

This track only got to number 3 in the UK, but was a huge number 1 smash in the US. Like Sid's version of 'My Way' and Shatner's cover of Pulp's 'Common People', it is just perfect - as is the video directed by Marc Klasfeld, which references numerous Jackson music videos.  

 

The fact that I love it - even though I'm not a Michael Jackson fan - is not the point; the point is that MJ also loved it and so do many of his fans and those who might be wary of white artists coming along and messing with the work of a legendary black performer - as many so-called reaction videos on YouTube make clear [5].   

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Neil Tennant, vocalist with the synth-pop duo the Pet Shop Boys, knows a thing or two about producing a great cover; his 1987 version with Chris Lowe of the song made famous by Elvis in 1972 - 'You Are Always on My Mind' - is often said to be the greatest cover version ever (which it isn't, but it certainly deserves a mention, and a listen: click here to see them performing it on Top of the Pops). 

[2] Somewhat ironically, the Sex Pistols were rather good at covering other people's songs; click here for their take on 'No Fun', by the Stooges (originally the 'B' side of 'Pretty Vacant' (1977), but this is the remastered version from the 35th anniversary edition of Never Mind the Bollocks (2012)); and click here for their version of '(I'm Not Your) Steppin' Stone', made famous by the Monkees, as found on The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle (1979).    

 

[3] A 1983 cover of 'Paint It Black' by the American punk band the Avengers, which I also like very much, is rather closer to the original: click here. 

[4] Siouxsie and the Banshees had previously covered another Beatle's track from the White Album (1968) - 'Helter Skelter' - which can be found on their debut album Thev Scream (1978): click here. 

[5] See for example this reaction by Jamel_AKA_Jamal, or this one from Rob Squad Reactions. 

There's No Fool Like an Old Fool: Notes on the Case of Ambrose the Masked Dancer

Jean Galland as Ambrose the masked dancer

Le Plaisir (dir. Max Ophüls, 1952) [1]

 

 "The truth of metaphysics is the truth of masks ..."

 

 

I. 

 

Mention The Mask to most people and they probably think of Stanley Ipkiss, as played by Jim Carrey in the 1994 film of that title; or, perhaps, of the original Dark Horse comic book series, created by Doug Mahnke and John Arcudi, that the movie was based upon. 

 

But for the small number of people familiar with 19th-century French literature, then it's the title of a short story by Guy de Maupassant [2]; one which I would like to discuss here, interested as I am at moment with the male response to ageing and what constitutes appropriate (or inappropriate) dress and behaviour in men over a certain age.  

 

II.

 

The story opens at a crowded masquerade ball. People were gathered to have fun and came from every quarter of Paris and every class, united in their desire for amusement and rowdy pleasure tinged with a sense of debauchery. 

 

There were pretty girls of every description; "some wearing common cotton, some the finest batiste; rich girls, old and covered with diamonds, and poor girls of sixteen, full of the desire to revel, to belong to men, to spend money".

The masked dancers were working themselves into a pagan frenzy; young women "whose lower limbs seemed to be attached to their bodies by rubber springs, were making wonderful and surprising motions with their legs", whilst their male partners hopped and skipped and waved their arms about. One could imagine them panting breathlessly beneath their masks. 

 

One man in particular stood out from the crowd due to the fact that he was "making strange fancy steps" which aroused the joy and sarcasm of those watching:

 

"He was thin, dressed like a dandy, with a pretty varnished mask on his face. It had a curly blond moustache and a wavy wig. He looked like a wax figure from the Musée Grévin, like a strange and fantastic caricature of the charming young man of fashion plates, and he danced with visible effort, clumsily, with a comical impetuosity." 

 

The narrator of the tale continues:

 

"He appeared rusty beside the others when he tried to imitate their gambols: he seemed overcome by rheumatism, as heavy as a great Dane playing with greyhounds. Mocking bravos encouraged him. And he, carried away with enthusiasm, jigged about with such frenzy that suddenly, carried away by a wild spurt, he pitched head foremost into the living wall formed by the audience, which opened up before him to allow him to pass, then closed around the inanimate body of the dancer, stretched out on his face." 

 

Oh dear, that's not good; no one wants to pass out on the dance floor and end up flat on their face - even when wearing a mask. 

 

Luckily for him, some kind souls pick him up and carry him off the dance floor. A doctor is called. Upon examining the unconscious figure, he notices that the mask he was wearing was "attached in a complicated manner, with a perfect network of small metal wires which cleverly bound it to his wig and covered the whole head". 

 

Indeed, even the neck was "imprisoned in a false skin which continued the chin and was painted the color of flesh, being attached to the collar of the shirt". All this material has to be cut away with large scissors. When the physician finally removes the elaborate disguise he is surprised to discover the worn out and wrinkled face of an old man:

 

"The surprise among those who had brought in this seemingly young dancer was so great that no one laughed, no one said a word. All were watching this sad face as he lay on the straw chairs, his eyes closed, his face covered with white hair, some long, falling from the forehead over the face, others short, growing around the face and the chin, and beside this poor head, that pretty little, neat varnished, smiling mask." 

 

 

III.

 

This is a creepy and brilliant opening to a tale - one that compels the reader to continue; we must find out who this mysterious figure is and why he wears such a mask. Even the doctor is curious to discover who this man might be. And so, when his patient finally recovers consciousness, he takes him home in a cab.

 

The old man, we are informed, lives on the other side of Montmarte in a somewhat delapidated building. The doctor helps him up four flights of stairs to his apartment, the door to which is opened by "an old woman, neat looking, with a white nightcap enclosing a thin face with sharp features, one of those good, rough faces of a hard-working and faithful woman". 

 

Upon seeing the state that the man - her husband, Ambrose - was in, she cried out in distress. The doctor calms her and explains what has happened. To his surprise, she wasn't at all shocked; for this wasn't the first time that such an incident had occurred. She insisted that the doctor help her put him to bed and allow him to sleep; that he'd be fine in the morning. 

 

The doctor, however, is not convinced and remains concerned for his patient. But the woman, Madeleine, insists that he'll be alright - that Ambrose has merely drunk too much on an empty stomach: 

 

"'He has eaten no dinner, in order to be nimble, and then he took a few absinthes in order to work himself up to the proper pitch. You see, drink gives strength to his legs, but it stops his thoughts and words. He is too old to dance as he does. Really, his lack of common sense is enough to drive one mad!'" 

 

The doctor, his curiosity piqued, enquired: "'But why does he dance like that at his age?'"

 

And that's really the key question here: Why does an elderly man still want to act and look young, at the risk of behaving in an inappropriate manner and making a fool of himself?  

 

It's a question that we might ask today, for example, of rock stars in their sixties and seventies who still take to the stage and attempt to summon up the passions and strike the poses of youth. 

 

As a middle-aged man myself, I think I have a pretty good idea of the answer. And so, whilst I'm irritated and embarrassed by those who, as it were, don masks and attempt to disguise their age with wigs, make-up, fashionable clothes, and much younger partners, I do sympathise.

 

However, as the masked dancer's wife spells out the answer to this question with such cruel precision, I'll let readers hear her reply:   

 

"'Ah! yes, why? So that the people will think him young under his mask; so that the women will still take him for a young dandy and whisper nasty things into his ears; so that he can rub up against all their dirty skins, with their perfumes and powders and cosmetics. Ah! it's a fine business!'" 

 

That's certainly part of it. But not all: the male desire for youthfulness isn't simply about retaining sex appeal and potency, although, obviously, Madeleine's main concern is with her husband's serial infidelity and how this has hurt her: 

 

"'What a life I have had for the last forty years! [...] I have been his wife and servant, everything, everything that he wished [ ...] But how he has made me cry [...]'" 

 

Now, whilst I don't wish to make light of Madeleine's pain, or deny the fact that her husband behaved cruelly in boasting of his affairs and insisting she hear every sordid detail, I would like to know why it is (certain) women always bring things back to themselves - and why they never stop to consider that perhaps - just perhaps - male passion and male suffering is greater than their own? [3] 

 

And without wanting to generalise in a manner that will bring accusations of sexism or misogyny my way, it does sometimes seem that whilst taking their own worries and their own bodies and health issues extremely seriously, women often sneer at men and dismiss their feelings and fears. Thus, they deride the notion of a male menopause, for example, and laugh at the idea of a mid-life crisis; or joke about erectile dysfunction, baldness, and even prostate cancer.

   

But let us return to Maupassant's tale ... 

 

 

IV.

 

Madeleine explains her husband's behaviour to the doctor in terms of regret - that feeling of sadness and disappointment which she understands only too well:

 

"'You see, it's regret that leads him on and that makes him put a pasteboard face over his own. Yes, the regret of no longer being what he was and of no longer making any conquests!'" 

 

I don't think that's right, however. I think it's angst and his sense of becoming invisible in the world that makes Ambrose put on a mask and demand the right to still participate in the game of life. 

Still, perhaps we're simply splitting hairs and forming a false dichotomy between regret and philosophical anxiety ... But talking of hairs:

 

"'Oh, monsieur, when I saw his first white hair I felt a terrible shock and then a great joy - a wicked joy - but so great, so great! I said to myself: 'It's the end - it's the end.' It seemed as if I were about to be released from prison. At last I could have him to myself, all to myself, when the others would no longer want him.'" 

 

At least Madeleine is honest - but that's a rather terrible confession. Remembering her joy at his rapid ageing over the next couple of years and the fact that he would lose his freshness so that women would no longer find him sexually attractive, she continues:

 

"'White hair! He was going to have white hair! My heart began to thump and perspiration stood out all over me, but away down at the bottom I was happy. It was mean to feel thus, but I did my housework with a light heart [...]'" 

 

That's good for her, but I do rather feel sorry for poor Ambrose for failing to live up to his name [3]. In desperation, he tried to start a new career in the hat business. When that failed, he tried to become an actor. Finally, he simply decided to frequent bars and cabaret venues, dancing the night away wearing his home-made mask:

 

"'This habit holds him like a frenzy. He has to be young; he has to dance with women who smell of perfume and cosmetics.'"

 

And - I would suggest - he has to get away from a woman who, whilst claiming to love him, pities him, mocks him and desires nothing more than for the two of them to sit side-by-side in their rocking chairs for all eternity. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Le Plaisir (dir. Max Ophüls, 1952) is a film based on three short stories by Guy de Maupassant; 'Le Masque' (1889), 'La Maison Tellier' (1881), and 'Le Modèle (1883). It was released in the English-speaking world under the title House of Pleasure. Stanley Kubrick once named it as his favourite film. To watch a French trailer (une bande-annonce) for the film, click here.

 

[2] Le masque was published in a periodical in 1889. It first appeared in book form in Maupassant's fifteenth collection of stories (the last published during his lifetime), L’inutile beauté (1890). 

      For this post, I have relied upon the English translation published as an e-book by online-literature.com: click here. The same translation can also be found in Vol. XI of Maupassant's short stories published by Project Gutenberg: click here.   

[3] This might explain, for example, why men produce superior works of art, commit suicide far more often, and experience that most philosophical of all moods, angst, with greater intensity than women. Could it be that the mutated Y-chromosome determines far more difference than we imagine or like to believe between the sexes ...?

 

[4] Ambrose is a boy's name of Greek origin, meaning immortal.

 

 

Readers interested in knowing more about the truth of masks might like to see an earlier post from February 2018: click here.

I am grateful to Thomas Bonneville - yet again - for suggesting this post as a follow up to the study of Gustav von Aschenbach, which can be found by clicking here. 

 

 

There's No Fool Like an Old Fool: Notes on the Case of Gustav von Aschenbach

Dirk Bogarde as Gustav von Aschenbach

in Death in Venice (1971)

 

 

I. 

 

For gentlemen of a certain age - let's say over 50 - be they gay or straight, poets, pederasts, or punk rockers still dreaming of the Summer of Hate, the sorry tale of Gustav von Aschenbach [1] remains a crucial warning against vainly attempting to summon up the passions of youth, or cling on to one's looks at the risk of losing one's dignity in the process ...

 

 

II. 

 

Gustav von Aschenbach is a small, dark, clean-shaven writer in his fifties: 

 

"His head seemed a bit too large in comparison with his almost dapper figure. His hair was brushed straight back, thinning out towards the crown, but very full about the temples, and strongly marked with grey; it framed a high, ridged forehead. Gold spectacles with rimless lenses cut into the bridge of his bold, heavy nose. The mouth was big, sometimes drooping, sometimes suddenly pinched and firm. His cheeks were thin and wrinkled, his well-formed chin had a slight cleft." 

 

If he doesn't sound a particularly handsome chap, there's no reason to think him an ugly blighter; he's simply a middle-aged intellectual, conscious of the fact that he's in a terminal state of physical decline. 

 

One day, however, Aschenbach is gripped by a new feeling; "a peculiar inner expansion, a kind of roving unrest, a youthful longing after far-off places". This feeling is "so vivid, so new, or so long dormant and neglected", that it literally stops him in his tracks: "It was the desire for travel, nothing more; although, to be sure, it had attacked him violently, and was heightened to a passion ..."

 

And so he decides to take himself off on holiday and books a room at the Grand Hotel des Bains [2] on that tiny island in the Venetian lagoon known as the Lido.    

 

Whilst aboard ship en route to the island, Aschenbach encounters a group of high-spirited young people:

"They made a considerable fuss about themselves and their enterprise, chattered, laughed, enjoyed their own antics self-contentedly [...]  One, in a bright yellow summer suit of ultra-fashionable cut, with a red necktie, and a rakishly tilted panama, surpassed all the others in his crowing good humour." 

 

However, as soon as Aschenbach observed the latter a bit more carefully, he realised with a kind of horror that he was, in fact, an atrocious old man attempting to pass for a youth by disguising himself with cosmetics, prosthetics, and dandyish attire: 

 

"There were wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. The faint crimson of the cheeks was paint, the hair under his brilliantly decorated straw hat was a wig; his neck was hollow and stringy, his turned-up moustache and the imperial on his chin were dyed; the full set of yellow teeth which he displayed when he laughed, a cheap artificial plate; and his hands, with signet rings on both index fingers, were those of an old man. Fascinated with loathing, Aschenbach watched him in his intercourse with his friends. Did they not know, did they not observe that he was old, that he was not entitled to wear their bright, foppish clothing, that he was not entitled to play at being one of them?"

 

Later during the journey at sea, Aschenbach again encounters the group of revellers on deck, all happily drinking bottles of Italian sparkling wine:

 

"But it was repulsive to see what a state the primped-up old man had been brought to by his comradeship with youth. His old head was not able to resist its wine like the young and robust: he was painfully drunk. With glazed eyes, a cigarette between his trembling fingers, he stood in one place, swaying backwards and forwards from giddiness, and balancing himself laboriously. Since he would have fallen at the first step, he did not trust himself from the spot - yet he showed a deplorable insolence, buttonholed everyone who came near him, stammered, winked, and tittered, lifted his wrinkled, ornamented index finger in a stupid attempt at bantering, while he licked the corners of his mouth with his tongue in the most abominably suggestive manner."

 

That's not a good look or appropriate behaviour even for a young man - but for a man of mature years it really is deplorable and depressing. The irony, of course, is that after becoming besotted with a beautiful teenage boy dressed in a sailor suit, Aschenbach increasingly starts to resemble the above. 

 

For when not perving on Tadzio and secretly following him around Venice, Aschenbach spends hours in front of the mirror, staring at his grey hair and the signs of fatigue which plunge him into shame and despair. In an attempt to reverse the signs of ageing, he visits the hotel's barber shop, where he is persuaded to have his hair dyed and to use moisturiser and make-up, so as to freshen up the skin a little.

 

In addition, Aschenbach "added bright youthful details to his dress, put on jewels, and used perfumes" and - hey presto! - before long he has transformed himself into a flamboyant old queen; his eyes sparkling, his wrinkles smoothed away with lotions and creams, his lips full once more and as red as raspberries ... 

 

Now, at last, he was ready to fall in love without hesitation; for  he had been rejuvinated and looked young once more (in his own mind at least). 

 

Sadly, however, Aschenbach never does get to hold Tadzio; for shortly after this he falls victim to the cholera outbreak then sweeping Venice and dies.

 

III. 

 

Just to be clear: I don't want to perpetuate myths of passivity and sexlessness when it comes to older people and I don't wish to appear ageist. 

 

However, I do think that one should age with style and good grace and that means - as Deleuze and Guattari say [3] - extracting the molecular elements, the forces and flows, that constitute the youth of whatever age one happens to be, rather than attempting to look and act like an adolescent. 

But then, what do I know? It's Gustav von Aschenbach and not me who now has a successful fashion label named after him [4] and maybe even an old fool dressed like a clown is ultimately preferable to some young member of the fashion police dictating what is and is not appropriate attire for every age group. 

 

As Adam Ant beseeched fans young and old in his Prince Charming phase: Don't you ever stop being dandy ... ridicule is nothing to be scared of [5].

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Gustav von Aschenbach is the main character in Thomas Mann's 1912 novella Der Tod in Venedig and, arguably, one of the most iconic figures within modern European literature - particularly after he was played by Dirk Bogarde in Luchino Visconti's 1971 film adaptation of the story (Morte a Venezia). 

      An English translation of Mann's novella, by Kenneth Burke, was published in periodical form in The Dial in 1924 and then in book form by Alfred A. Knopf the following year, as Death in Venice and Other Stories. There have been numerous editions and several translations since, but Burke's remains an excellent translation and can be read online thanks to Project Gutenberg: click here. All quotations in this post are taken from this e-book (which is why there are no page numbers supplied).

 

[2] The Grand Hotel des Bains was a former luxury hotel built in 1900 to attract wealthy tourists. Thomas Mann stayed there in 1911 and Luchino Visconti also shot scenes for his film at the hotel. It closed in 2010 and awaits conversion into an exclusive apartment complex.    

 

[3] See Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, trans. Brian Massumi, (University of Minnesota Press, 1987), p. 277. 

      Deleuze and Guattari also offer the following remark that those concerned about getting older might like to consider: "There are times when old age produces not eternal youth but a sovereign freedom, a pure necessity in which one enjoys a moment of grace between life and death ..." See What is Philosophy?, trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Graham Burchell, (Columbia University Press, 1994), p. 1.

 

[4] German-born fashion designer Robert Geller established a new line in 2017, named after the protagonist of Death in Venice. Made with Japanese fabrics, the pieces have a pretreated broken-in look and a slightly more commercial price point. Geller chose to name the range after Gustav von Aschenbach because, like the character, he suddenly become aware of his own age, having turned 40 in 2016. 

      Readers who wish to know more (and see some of the designs) can click here for an article by Nick Remsen in Vogue (10 July 2017), entitled 'Who is Gustav von Aschenbach and What Does Robert Geller Have to Do With Him?' 

 

[5] Adam and the Ants, 'Prince Charming', the number one hit single released from the album of the same title (CBS, 1981): click here for the official video directed by Mike Mansfield and Adam Ant. Whilst I agree with Adam that it's important to display a certain dandyism and rise above ridicule, I really don't think it was advisable for Marco to attempt the look he goes for in this video.    

 

Bonus: click here to watch the original 1971 trailer for Visconti's Death in Venice (now in HD). 

 

This post is for Thomas Bonneville who suggested the idea to me. Thanks also to Maria Thanassa and Catherine Brown for sharing their insights into Visconti's film version of Death in Venice (1971).  

 

 

A Brief Note on the Resurrection of the Damned and Johnny Rotten as an Artist in Decline

The Damned - Rat Scabies, Brian James, Dave Vanian and Captain Sensible - 

proving that whilst punk rockers never die, they do, sadly, grow old ...

Photo credit: John Nguyen / JNVisuals (2022)

 

 

Readers who, like me, still retain a vague interest in how the story of punk unfolds in its twilight years, will have doubtless noticed a couple of stories in the news recently. 

 

Firstly, the original line up of the Damned have reunited to play live, 46 years after they initially took to the stage, offering us not so much an opportunity to smell once more the sweet scent of a new rose, as witness the sad spectacle of human decay.

 

Their show at the Hammersmith Apollo earlier this week - the first of five UK gigs - was described by Neil McCormick in The Telegraph as a 'cacophony of amateurish noise and chaos', so it certainly sounds like it was fun [1]. 

 

But, ultimately, apart from sixty-something die hard fans, to whom does such a event really mean anything? 

 

Secondly, a sheet of handwritten lyrics by Johnny Rotten has sold at auction for more than £50,000; well over the estimated sale price of between £15,000 and £20,000. 

 

The songs featured are 'Submission' - a track written in mocking response to Malcolm's request for a song with a sadomasochistic theme - and 'Holidays in the Sun' - the Sex Pistols' fourth single, which opens with the memorable line 'A cheap holiday in other people's misery' [2].    

 

Lyrically, neither song is at the same level of brilliance as 'Anarchy in the U.K.' or 'God Save the Queen' and arguably Rotten never wrote anything as good again as this verse taken from the latter:

When there's no future, how can there be sin?

We're the flowers in the dustbin ...

We're the poison in the human machine ...

We're the future, your future! [3]

 

However, even Rotten's weakest songs written as the charismatic young singer of the Sex Pistols look like works of genius compared to the dispiriting rubbish he now offers us as the fat old man fronting Public Image Ltd. 

 

I very much doubt people will be paying tens of thousands of pounds for the handwritten lyrics to 'Double Trouble', for example. 

 

Nor can I imagine that Sebastian Horsley would still describe Rotten as "Rimbaud reborn in Finsbury Park" - with all the intelligence and vision of an extraordinary poet [4] - were he able to hear Lydon moaning about his domestic life and indoor plumbing issues: 

 

What - you fucking nagging again? 

About what? What? What? 

The toilet's fucking broken again 

I repaired that, I told you 

Get the plumber in again [5]

 

It pains me to say it, but I'm tempted to agree with Vivienne Westwood that whilst Johnny Rotten was a sensation when performing with the Sex Pistols, once he was thrown out of the band "he didn't have any more ideas" [6]. 

 

And so he turned inward and began to exploit his memories and feelings; this internalisation being one of the defining characteristics of post-punk. Indeed, Lydon himself has confessed that whilst he invested the Sex Pistols with his intelligence, he poured his heart and soul into PiL. 

 

This may have produced some interesting work at first - I'm not denying the brilliance of Metal Box (1979) - but, ultimately, it resulted in a steady decline of his writing skills, just as age and increased girth have, sadly, led to a deterioration of his ability to sing and perform [7]. 

 

Johnny Rotten at the Cruel World Festival (14 May 2022)

Photo by Alex Kluft

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Neil McCormick, 'The Damned are just as amateur now as they were in 1976', The Telegraph (29 Oct 2022): click here. 

      For those who want a reminder of just how great the Damned were back in the day, click here. 'New Rose' was the first single released by a British punk rock group, on 22 October 1976 (one month prior to the Sex Pistols releasing their debut single, 'Anarchy in the U.K.'). 

 

[2] Both these songs can be found on the Sex Pistols' album Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols (Virgin Records, 1977). Click here to listen to 'Submission' and/or here to play 'Holidays in the Sun'.

 

[3] Lyrics from the Sex Pistols' second single 'God Save the Queen', released May 1977 on Virgin Records, written by Johnny Rotten and © Warner Chappell Music, Inc. The track is credited to all four members of the band; Steve Jones, Johnny Rotten, Glen Matlock, and Paul Cook. Click here to play.

 

[4] Sebastian Horsley, Dandy in the Underworld, (Sceptre, 2008), pp. 57-58.

 

[5] Lyrics from 'Double Trouble' written by Lydon, although the track is credited to all four members of PiL; Scott Firth, Lu Edmonds, John Lydon, and Bruce Smith. It can be found on the album What the World Needs Now ... (PiL Official Ltd., 2015): to play, click here.

      Although the album received mostly favourable reviews, it is, in fact, fucking awful. Middle-class music critics working for The Guardian might find the songs exhilarating, foul-mouthed fun, but I don't.

[6] Vivienne Westood interviewed by Alex Flood (13 May 2022) for the NME. Click here to read online.

[7] This is evidenced by a charmless live performance at the Cruel World Festival earlier this year: click here to watch an excruciating version of 'Shoom' (another track from What the World Needs Now ...).

Reflections on the Virgin Mary's Pussy

 

Aubrey Plaza as the Virgin Mary holding 

Grumpy Cat as the Meowsiah (2014) 

lostmediawiki.com

 

There are no cats in the Bible. 

 

Neverthless, during the Middle Ages, they silently crept their way into Christian mythology and became associated with the Virgin Mary, as evidenced in the work of many great artists including Leonardo, Rubens, and Rembrandt. 

 

It's not really clear why the Madonna became associated with a feline companion, but one legend is that a cat had given birth to a kitten beneath the manger in Bethlehem and that Mary was deeply touched by the display of maternal tenderness that mirrored her own love for the newborn baby Jesus. 

 

Further, it's sometimes claimed that when Jesus began to cry due to the coldness of the stable in which he lay, the she-cat instinctively jumped into his make-do crib and comforted the infant with the warmth of her body and gentle purring.      

That's a nice story. However, I can't help imagining in my more diabolical moments what might have happened if the cat had sucked the breath away from Mary's bundle of joy and suffocated the Son of God ...

 

Would Joseph have strangled the creature in a rage? 

 

Would Our Lady have adopted the kitten in order to compensate for the loss of her child and become its blessed surrogate mother? 

 

Would the Three Wise Men have fallen down in worship before the kitten and recognised him as their Messiah? 

 

Would we celebrate the birth of a feline saviour each December?   

 

Would Nietzsche have written a work entitled Die Antikatze?

 

And would we now find the above photo of Aubrey Plaza an iconic and profoundly serious image, rather than an amusing and mildly blasphemous one?

 

 

Note: this post is for Gail Marie Naylor, whose picture of the Virgin Mary holding a cat inspired me to write it: 

 

 

 

Call It: Thoughts on the Coin Toss Scene in No Country for Old Men

Anton Chigurh teaches a philosophical point to an elderly man 

who owns a gas station in No Country for Old Men (2007)

 

 

I. 

 

I'm not alone in admiring the 2007 film directed by the Coen brothers, No Country for Old Men, based on Cormac McCarthy's 2005 novel of the same title [1]. And I'm probably not the only one whose favourite scene in the movie is the one set in a gas station, involving a tossed coin ...

 

In this scene, fatalistic psychopath and assassin Anton Chigurh - played by everybody's favourite Spanish actor Javier Bardem - terrorises the elderly proprieter of the gas station, obliging him to stake his life on one toss of a coin: click here.     

 

 

II. 

 

There are many aspects we could comment on in this scene; Chigurh's contempt for the banal nature of small talk upon which human interaction is founded and, indeed, the small, pitiful nature of most lives, for example. Or how it is Bardem manages to convey such mocking malevolence and menace in his performance; is it the voice? is it the look on his face? is it the haircut? 

 

But it's what Chigurh says about the coin - a quarter, dated 1958 - that most interests. He says that it has been travelling through space and time for twenty-two years (the film is set in 1980), just to be flipped and slammed on a counter in order to determine what happens next. 

 

The coin exists, in other words, in all its here and nowness, in all it's thingness and dual nature (head or tails) and although of little monetary value, it's invested with the greatest weight at that moment.  

 

And that's fascinating when you think about it. But then, of course, the same is true of any other object; they all have an astonishing presence and some queer relation to us; our fate and theirs is inextricably linked [2].

 

And that's why we should treat all objects with a certain respect and never unthinkingly put a lucky quarter in our pocket, where it will become just another coin: which it is.    

 

 

Notes

 

[1] In fact, the movie was not only a huge commercial and critical success, but won numerous awards, including four Oscars, three BAFTAs, and two Golden Globes. It would surprise me if there's anyone who doesn't like this film. 

 

[2] Having said that, we need to be wary of slipping into a lazy relationism in which we view objects only in terms of their connections (particularly their connections to us) and forget about their radical non-connectedness (i.e., their withdrawn nature).  

  

 

Known / Unknown

Alicia Eggert, Known, Unknown (2015) 

Neon with custom controller (30 x 90 x 12 in.)

fnargalleryallery.com

Twenty years ago, when the U.S. Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld answered a question at a news briefing by differentiating between known knowns (i.e., things we know we know), known unknowns (i.e., things we know we don't know), and unknown unknowns (i.e., things we don't know we don't know), his remark was met with ridicule in certain quarters [1].

And yet, of course, it makes perfect sense and Rumsfeld was referring to concepts that members of the intelligence community (and NASA) had used ever since the idea of unknown unknowns was first developed in the work of psychologists Joseph Luft and Harrington Ingham in the mid-1950s. 

 

Individuals involved in project management and strategic planning also have a penchant for the language of things that are known and unknown and I agree with the cultural commentator and author Mark Steyn who described Rumsfeld's comment as a "brilliant distillation of quite a complex matter" [2].    

 

For me, as a Nietzschen philosopher concerned with chance and uncertainty, I suppose it's the unknown unknowns that most excite; for they determine true events which come out of the blue and cannot be anticipated - such as the Cretaceous–Paleogene extinction event which saw off the dinosaurs 66 million years ago.

 

But I'm also interested in a category of knowledge that Slavoj Žižek posits in addition to the three mentioned by Rumsfeld; namely, the unknown known ... [3]

 

That is to say, things which we hide from ourselves or refuse to openly acknowledge that we know; things which embarrass or shame people into silence and a false profession of ignorance. Things, for example, such as the death camps in Nazi Germany (of course the German citizens knew), or the child rape gangs still operating in many English cities (of course the British authorities know).       

 

From an ethical point of view, facing up to the unknown known - that which we don't want to know - is perhaps the most crucial thing of all; for as Žižek rightly argues, our disavowed beliefs often hide obscene practices and have deadly consequences.

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Donald Rumsfeld was speaking at a U.S. Department of Defense news briefing on 12 February, 2002. His statement on the known and unknown was subject to much commentary and scorned by those who neither understood the validity or importance of what he was saying; this included members of The Plain English Campaign, who presented Rumsfeld with their Foot in Mouth Award in 2003 (something awarded annually to a public figure deemed to have made a baffling or nonsensical comment).

 

[2] See Mark Steyn, 'Rummy speaks the truth, not gobbledygook', Daily Telegraph (9 December, 2003): click here to read online. 

[3] See Slavoj Žižek's essay 'What Donald Rumsfeld Doesn't Know That He Knows About Torture and the Iraq War', In These Times (21 May, 2004): click here to read online. 

 

 

In Memory of Frances Farmer

Frances Farmer (1913-1970)
 

"She'll come back as fire / To burn all the liars 

Leave a blanket of ash on the ground ..."

 

 

The other day, a friend wrote to say she was watching a movie with Frances Farmer on TV and I had to confess that I didn't know who that was - even though, it turns out, the latter has cemented her place within the cultural imagination thanks not merely to her filmstar good looks and acting career, but her much discussed mental health issues and notorious drunken exploits.

At the height of her fame - and amidst reports of increasingly erratic behaviour, fuelled by heroic amounts of alcohol - Farmer was committed to psychiatric care, where she was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and, according to some of the more sensational accounts, subjected to insulin shock therapy and non-consensual psychosurgery; i.e., lobotomised. 

 

That last point may not be true and her experiences might not have been as grim as some have made out. But, even so, no one wants to be kept in a madhouse for several years and it can't have been a barrel of laughs being "raped by orderlies, gnawed on by rats [...] chained in padded cells, strapped into strait-jackets and half-drowned in ice baths" [1]. 

 

After her release in 1950, Farmer staged an acting comeback, mainly on TV and in local theatre. She died in 1970, from cancer, aged 56. Her (fictionalised and ghostwritten) autobiography - Will There Really Be a Morning? - was published posthumously in 1972. Since then, there have been several films made of her life story, including the 1982 film, Frances, directed by Graeme Clifford and starring Jessica Lange in the title role. 

 

Of course, being mad, bad and beautiful, ensured that Farmer would gain legendary status amongst the rock 'n' roll set - Kurt Cobain even named his daughter after her [2] - but what really interests me is the fact that in 1931, whilst still at High School, Farmer won an essay writing contest with a controversial text entitled God Dies. 

Essentially an attempt to reconcile her wish for divine order ruled over by a strong father-figure with the growing realisation that, actually, she existed in a chaotic and godless world, Farmer explains in her autobiography how the essay was very much influenced by a reading of Nietzsche:

"He expressed the same doubts, only he said it in German: Gott ist tot. God is dead. This I could understand. I was not to assume that there was no God, but I could find no evidence in my life that He existed or that He had ever shown any particular interest in me." [3]

 

And so, the question is:  

 

How could this woman - a Nietzschean with an idiosyncratic sense of style who shunned Hollywood, fought the law, and, like Garbo, combined sexual allure with cold aloofness - have remained entirely unknown to me for so long? 

 

It really makes me wonder who else I've never come across before, but should have - figures that I don't even know I don't know about! 

 

It's possible - and this is not a happy thought - that the ones we would love most in this life are also those perfect strangers about whom we remain entirely unaware ...      

 

 

Notes

 

[1] Frances Farmer, quoted in Sexual Abuse in the Lives of Women Diagnosed with Serious Mental Illness, ed. Maxine Harris and Christine L. Landis, (Routledge, 1997), p. 146.

 

[2] Kurt Cobain also wrote the song 'Frances Farmer Will Have Her Revenge on Seattle', which can be found on Nirvana's third (and final) studio album, In Utero (DGC Records, 1993), or played by clicking here. The three lines of song lyric at the top of this post are taken from this song.

 

[3] Frances Farmer, Will There Really Be a Morning? (Putnam, 1972), p. 159. 

      It is with regret that I must also note that, towards the end of her life, Farmer finds God and converts to Catholicism - we might arguably read this as the final manifestation of her mental illness. 

This post is for Carrolle who brought the figure of Frances Farmer to my attention.

From the Office of Malcolm McLaren

 

I. 

 

Whilst rummaging through a box of what I call treasures and others label junk, I came across some stolen stationery from Malcolm McLaren's first floor office at 25 Denmark Street ...

 

This included a few sheets of headed paper with the names of the two limited companies which McLaren traded under post-Glitterbest [1]; Tour D'Eiffel Productions and Moulin Rouge.     

 

The latter incorporates the figure of a can-can dancer into its logo, whilst the former includes a comic character who appears to have been taken from a saucy postcard. 

 

Both speak of McLaren's Francophilia, or, more precisely, his long fascination with the French capital; something I've discussed in an earlier post published on Torpedo the Ark [2]. And they also tell us something of his playful spirit and joie de vivre.  

 

 

II. 

 

According to biographer Paul Gorman, McLaren was working out of the office on Tin Pan Alley from the early spring of 1980 until moving full-time to LA in 1985 [3]. 

 

This was an incredibly creative period in which McLaren not only managed Bow Wow Wow, oversaw Worlds End and Nostalgia of Mud, but developed his own solo career as a recording artist - releasing Duck Rock in 1983 and Fans the following year.

 

I first went to the office on 30 March, 1983, having been invited to call up by Nick Egan [4] the day before (I was attempting to arrange a six-week work attachment as part of a degree course on critical theory, art and media):

 

 

Finally met Carrolle [5]: she looked great dressed in a McLaren-Westwood outfit with a big death or glory belt buckle holding things together; reddish-purple hair; multiple earrings. Very friendly; an East End girl. 

      Malcolm wasn't there, but the two black Americans hanging around were, apparently, the World's Famous Supreme Team [6] - so that was kind of amusing.

      Admired the large 'Zulus on a Time Bomb' [7] poster on the wall - next to a map of the world and some old movie posters, including one for the Elvis Presley film Love Me Tender [8].   

      Nick Egan arrived - he also looked great; very tall, slim, punky blonde hair, wearing striped trousers, a big jumper and a Buffalo-style sheepskin coat. He introduced me to a photographer, Neil Matthews, and gave me some names and numbers to call. This included Lee Ellen, the press officer at Charisma Records, who he was sure could find me something to do (unfortunately, he and Malcolm couldn't help directly, as they were going to be in New York).

      Even though Malcolm wasn't there in person - he had something wrong with his ear - it was clear everything revolved around him; Malcolm says ... Malcolm wants ... Malcolm needs, etc. That's understandable, as he's the star of the show, but it does reduce everyone else to the status of a satellite. 

      Left the office feeling happy. Went for a coffee on Old Compton Street. [9]   

 

Fourteen months later, however, and everything was rapidly coming to an end; the roof had fallen in at Charisma Records - literally and metaphorically, Tony Stratton-Smith having sold the company to Richard Branson - and McLaren had relocated to Hollywood, leaving me and Carrolle to close the office at 25 Denmark Street once last time ...

Carrolle starts her new job tomorrow. I went over to help her shut up shop so to speak; took us several hours to take down shelves and pack everything away - books, posters, papers ... etc.

      Although Carrolle was upset, she laughed when she heard from Malcolm on the phone, complaining about an old biddy who had been appointed as his secretary at Columbia Pictures and who was driving him up the wall. Whilst I'm sure Malcolm will have fun in LA, I suspect he'll miss London. In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he returned sooner rather than later. The latter might be a muddy hole, as he says, but he's very much a Londoner at heart [10].

      Carrolle let me have the large map of the world off the wall as a souvenir. I also grabbed a copy of the Bow Wow Wow single 'Louis Quatorze' that was lying around. Left the office feeling sad: in many ways it really is the end of an era. [11]    

Notes

 

[1] Glitterbest - the Sex Pistols era management, publishing and production company founded by McLaren and his lawyer, Stephen Fisher, as co-director - went into receivership in February 1979, after Johnny Rotten successfully took legal action against the company.

[2] See 'Notes on Malcolm McLaren's Paris' (21 May 2020): click here. 

 

[3] See Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, (Constable, 2020), p. 451.

      Whilst Gorman mentions that McLaren was trading from 25 Denmark Street as Moulin Rouge Ltd, he says nothing of Tour D'Eiffel Productions Ltd. It would be interesting to know which company was registered first and how they differed (if they differed at all).    

 

[4] Nick Egan is a visual design artist and film director who collaborated with McLaren on many projects during the period we are discussing here. Probably he came up with the letterhead designs shown here.        

 

[5] Carrolle was Malcolm's PA and office manager at 25 Denmark Street. We had corrresponded prior to this first meeting.

 

[6] The World's Famous Supreme Team was an American hip hop duo consisting of Sedivine the Mastermind and Just Allah the Superstar. They found international fame when McLaren enlisted them for his 1982 single 'Buffalo Gals' and then featured samples from their radio show on Duck Rock (1983).

 

[7] 'Zulus on a Time Bomb' was the B-side of McLaren's second single 'Soweto', released in February 1983 from the album Duck Rock (Charisma Records, 1983), written by Trevor Horn and Malcolm McLaren.

 

[8] Love Me Tender was Elvis's first film; dir. Robert D. Webb (1956), starring Richard Egan and Debra Paget. It was named after the smash hit single of the same title (which Presley performs in the film, along with three other songs). 

 

[9] Entry from the Von Hell Diaries dated Wednesday 30 March 1983. 

   

[10] Indeed, even McLaren's vision of Paris was one shaped by London. As he says in the song 'Walking with Satie': "I first saw Paris in Soho when I was thirteen". This track can be found on the 1994 album entitled Paris. 

      McLaren would also explain to Louise Neri that he was fascinated by the ways in which England influenced French culture and history. See Paul Gorman, The Life and Times of Malcolm McLaren, p. 433. 

 

[11] Entry from the Von Hell Diaries dated Monday 13 May 1985.

 

 

Sing Hello

 

 

I.

 

I've mentioned before on this blog how the word hello has long held a privileged place in my personal vocabulary: click here.  

 

It's disappointing, therefore, that the majority of songs that have the word hello in their title or lyrics make one wish to stop up one's ears like Odysseus, so as to never hear them again. And this includes some really well-known songs by much loved artists. 

 

For example: 

 

'Hello, Dolly!', by Louis Armstrong (1964) ...

 

'Hello, Goodbye', by The Beatles (1967) ...

'Hello, I Love You', by The Doors (1968) ...

 

'Hello', by Lionel Richie (1984) ... 

 

'Hello', by Adele (2015) ... 

 

In fact, the more I come to think about it, there is really only one great song containing the word hello - and that is Gary Glitter's smash hit single 'Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again' [1]. 

 

 

II.

 

1973 was a golden year for British pop music - particularly for the genre known as glam rock - and whilst I loved Sweet, Slade, and Suzi Quatro, Gary Glitter was my beautiful obsession at this time [2]. 

 

'Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again' - written by Glitter and genius record producer Mike Leander - was much loved not only by teeny-boppers, but by football supporters up and down the country. O what fun we had singing along to this ridiculously catchy song!    

 

Of course, that was then and this is now ... And Glitter's songs are today no longer played on the radio or sung on the terraces and his performances on Top of the Pops no longer shown - we all know why ... [3]

 

Without getting into the whole can we separate art from the artist debate [4], I think that's a shame. And ultimately mistaken. I suppose, push comes to shove, I remain of the Wildean view that there is no such thing as a moral or immoral pop record.     

    

 

Notes

 

[1] Gary Glitter, 'Hello! Hello! I'm Back Again', single release from the album Touch Me (Bell Records, 1973): click here to play. 

      Having said that this is the only great song with hello in the title and/or lyrics, I must obviously also mention Soft Cell's 'Say Hello, Wave Goodbye' (Some Bizzare, 1982): click here. And I have to give a nod to 'Public Image' (Virgin, 1978), the debut single by Public Image Ltd., which opens with Rotten repeating the word hello six times: click here.

 

[2] See the post 'Notes on a Glam-Punk Childhood' (24 July 2018): click here. 

 

[3] Glitter's career ended after he was imprisoned for downloading child pornography in 1999, and was subsequently convicted of child sexual abuse and attempted rape, in 2006 and 2015, respectively. The fact remains, however, that he is one of the UK's most successful performers, selling over 20 million records, including numerous hit singles (three of which reached number one in the charts). To deny him his place in the pantheon of pop is simply to whitewash our own cultural history. 

 

[4] It's not that this debate isn't philosophically interesting - involving as it does questions concerning ethics and aesthetics - it's just too big and wide-ranging to address here. What I would say is that whilst it's clear that bad people can make good art, it's less certain whether the morally virtuous can produce anything other than mediocre work (at best).