Why Johnny's Rottenness is the Third Thing

Messrs. Rotten, Dury & Hell 

Photo credits: Chris Morphet / Gie Knaeps / Roberta Bayley

 

 

There's a little poem by D. H. Lawrence which opens:

Water is H2O, hydrogen two parts, oxygen one, 

but there is also a third thing, that makes it water 

and nobody knows what it is. [1]

 

I'm not sure that a molecular physicist would agree with that, but I'm quite happy as a philosopher to accept that's the case; that whilst the chemical formula for water, H2O, might tell us that each of its molecules contains two hydrogen and one oxygen atom, that's not telling us much and certainly isn't telling us everything. 

 

When it comes to water, in whatever state we encounter it - as a running liquid, a frozen solid, or a steamy vapour - there is always something magical and mysterious; it's thingness is greater than the sum of its material parts.    

 

 

II.

 

I am reminded of this whenever I hear it suggested that Johnny Rotten's style and stage persona was simply constructed from elements of Ian Dury and Richard Hell [2].

 

Obviously, there is some truth in this. But there is also a third thing, that makes Rotten unique and, in my view, so much greater than his influences and inspirations. 

 

And nobody knows what it is ...

 

 

Notes

 

[1] D. H. Lawrence, 'The third thing', The Poems, Vol. I, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 447.  

 

[2] Even in 2019 Marky Ramone was still claiming that the Sex Pistols were mere imitators and that Rotten had stolen Richard Hell's entire look and act: click here. But, actually, it was Malcolm who was captivated by Richard Hell and the whole New York punk scene, far more than Rotten ever was, as Paul Gorman indicates in his biography The Life & Times of Malcolm McLaren (Constable, 2020); see chapter 16, pp. 241-42. 

      Readers might also find my post on the difference between 'Pretty Vacant' (by the Sex Pistols) and 'Blank Generation' (by Richard Hell and the Voidoids) of interest: click here.    

      As for Ian Dury, it's regrettable that he seemed to resent Rotten and claimed that the latter had stolen his look - right down to the razor blade and safety pin earring - and copied his hunched over style of holding the microphone on stage. He might have been a wee bit more grateful for the fact that it was punk that enabled him to finally achieve success and a number of top ten singles.       

Lady Chatterley: A Jewel in the Crown of England's Glory

Michele Dotrice as Constance in 'The Handyman and M'Lady'

The Morecambe & Wise Show (1976)

 

'There are jewels in the crown of England's glory 

And every jewel shines a thousand ways ...'

 

 

Constance Chatterley - known to her friends and family as Connie, to her servants and social inferiors as Lady Chatterley, and to her lover, Oliver Mellors, as the best bit o' cunt left on earth [1] - is a fictional figure ingrained in our cultural imagination in its broadest sense, forever popping up and stripping off in the literary imagination; the pornographic imagination; the comic imagination; and the popular imagination. 

I was recently reminded of this when watching an episode of The Morecambe & Wise Show from January 1976 [2], in which Michele Dotrice (Ooh Betty!) gives us her a version of Connie in a play what Ern wrote entitled 'The Handyman and M'Lady' and which concerns a rich, titled young lady who is deprived of love after her husband has an accident with a combine harvester, unfortunately leaving him impudent.

  

I was then further reminded of Connie's cultural ubiquity when I happened to come across a video on Youtube of Ian Dury performing a song entitled 'England's Glory', in which he name-checks a few of the jewels (i.e. people and things) that embody all that is best about our national character: click here [3].   

 

I have to admit, it makes me smile to hear Lady Chatterley mentioned after Vera Lynne and Stafford Cripps (just before Muffin the Mule, Winston Churchill and Robin Hood). 

 

But it also makes me think that those in government tasked with coming up with a 'Life in the UK Test' to try and keep out those who know nothing (and care less) about British history and culture, might have used this song for the basis for such.

 

Although, having said that, the sad truth is that most UK-born citizens under the age of 55 probably have no idea what winkles, Woodbines and Walnut Whips are either; or even who Frankie Howerd and Max Miller were ...       

 

 

Notes

 

[1] This charming phrase appears in chapter XII of D. H. Lawrence's scandalous novel Lady Chatterley's Lover. It can be found on p. 177 of the Cambridge edition ed. Michael Squires (1993). 

 

[2] The Morecambe & Wise Show, Series 9: Episode 2, dir. Ernest Maxin, written by Eddie Braben (with additional material by Eric and Ernie). This episode first aired on BBC Television on 21 January, 1976.

 

[3] 'England's Glory', written by Ian Dury and Rod Melvin, can be found on the album Apples (WEA, 1989): click here. A demo version can also be found on Hit Me! The Best of Ian Dury (BMG, 2020); and a live version is included on the re-issued New Boots and Panties!! (Edsel Records, 2015). 

      Amusingly, the song was first recorded by Max Wall and released as a single on Stiff Records in 1977. Wall also appeared onstage with Dury at the Hammersmith Odeon in 1978, but was poorly received by the punk audience, until Dury came out and told 'em to show some fucking respect for a legend of British comedy. Those who are interested, can listen to Wall's version of 'England's Glory' by clicking here.

Brief Notes on the History of the Human Flock 2: The Judeo-Christian Era

The Good Shepherd

Bernhard Plockhorst (1825-1907)

 

 

I. 

 

Whilst the ancient Greeks - even Plato - ultimately found the idea of a kindly shepherd inadequate for conceptualising political power, the Jews were still very much smitten with it. And among them the thematic of the pastorate is developed into something far more complex:

"It covers a large part of the relations between the Eternal One and his people. Yahweh governs by leading: he walks at the head of the Hebrews [...] and by his strength, he 'guides them toward the pastures of his holiness'. The Eternal One is the shepherd par excellence." [1]

 

Foucault continues:

 

"The shepherd reference characterizes the monarchy of David, in that his reign was legitimized by having been given responsibility for the flock by God [...] It also marks the messianic promise; the one who is to come will be the new David; as against all the bad shepherds who have scattered the sheep, the one to come will be the unique pastor, designated to bring the flock back to him." [2]

 

Of course, we all know whom those designated as Christians identify as this new David and their Messiah: Jesus; he who styles himself on more than one occasion as the good shepherd - i.e. one who not only knows and cares for his sheep, but is prepared to lay down his life for them [3].

 

This old idea, circulating widely in the Hellenistic and Roman world, was one the early Christians recognised as possessing great power; namley, the power to convert non-believers and corrupt even the noblest soul. 

 

And so they not only latched on to it, but, "for the first time in the history of the West" [4], they gave it an institutional form; i.e. they developed a herd morality upon the human herd instinct [5] and organised themselves into a Church: 

 

"And that Church defines the power that it exercises over the faithful - over each and all of them - as a pastoral power." [6] 

 

This was a decisive move: a vital development in what Nietzsche terms the slave revolt in morality; an ongoing process that originated in Judaism but radically extended under Christianity; a way in which the spirit of ressentiment becomes a driving force in history, negating power in the old sense by turning all active forces reactive [7].

 

 

II. 

 

Foucault offers some very interesting remarks on the figure of the shepherd-lord and the charismatic power he exercises in the name of Love ...

 

Firstly, he exercises his power not over a place, but directly on the people. Whereas others look to build an earthly kingdom or powerful state with solid foundations, he gathers a crowd whom he subjects to his unique will. It is he alone who creates the "unity of the sheep" and forms "the flock out of the multitude" [8].

Secondly, he does not set himself above the flock, so much as at their head; he's the one out in front, the leader whose example they must follow and his power "locates its purpose in an elsewhere and a later" [9]. In other words, his power has the form of a mission.  

Thirdly, the shepherd nourishes his flock. He's not acting in his own self-interest. Rather, his role is to make sure his followers prosper; that they are spiritually enriched. If he ensures the plumpness of his flock, then this justifies his authority. 

   

Fourthly, whilst his attention extends over the flock as a whole, he has a duty to watch over each individual as an individual; not view them as "indifferently subjugated subjects" [10]. Even today, Christians like to believe they have a personal relation with Jesus.  

Finally, the essential task of the shepherd is to ensure the safety of his flock; he is their saviour first and foremost: "The good shepherd must save the whole world, but also the least of the sheep that might be in danger." [11] 

 

Or, indeed, save the soul of even the blackest sheep, who has strayed far from the flock.

 

Thus, it isn't easy to be a shepherd; they have to assume total responsibility for their flock and Christianity in particular "demands of the pastor a form of knowledge which goes well beyond the skill or experience that tradition attributed to the shepherds of men" [12].

 

In conclusion ...

 

Whilst Jesus wasn't the first shepherd of men, he was undoubtedly the most successful in the role and the Church established in his name has brilliantly set in place "institutions and procedures designed to regulate the 'conduct' of men" [13], so as to transform the whole of humanity into one giant flock.

 

How one views this will depend of course on what extent one identifies as homo ovis ...  

 

 

Notes 

 

[1] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, trans. Robert Hurley, (Penguin Books, 2021), Appendix 2, p. 303. 

      Foucault is referring to Exodus 15:13. The King James Version of this line reads: "Thou in thy mercy hast led forth the people which thou hast redeemed: thou hast guided them in thy strength unto thy holy habitation."

 

[2] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, p. 303.

[3] See John 10:11-15, where Jesus twice calls himself the good shepherd. 

[4] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, p. 305.

[5] These terms - herd morality and herd instinct - are Nietzsche's. Obviously, he's not a fan of such and whilst conceding that herd animal morality has triumphed in modern Europe, he hopes to demonstrate that many other forms of higher morality are (or ought to be) possible in a post-Christian era, just as they were prior to such. 

      See Beyond Good and Evil, V. 202. And for Nietzsche's analogy of lambs and eagles, in which he examines how each arrives at its own definition of what constitutes the good, see On the Genealogy of Morality, I. 13.    

 

[6] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, p. 310.

 

[7] See sections 10-12 of the first essay in Nietzsche's Genealogy.  

 

[8] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, p. 305.

 

[9] Ibid., pp. 305-06.

 

[10] Ibid., p. 307.

 

[11] Ibid., p. 310.   

 

[12] Ibid., p. 313.

 

[13] Ibid., p. 310. 

 

 

To read part one of this post - on the human flock in the pagan era - click here.  

Brief Notes on the History of the Human Flock 1: The Pagan Era

Late Roman marble copy of a Kriophoros

by the ancient Greek sculptor Kalamis 

(5th-century BC)

 

 

Many of us have what might be termed an Animal Farm moment of revelation when we look from A to B, and from B to A, and from A to B again, but are unable to tell which is which [1].

For example, at a certain point it becomes clear that there is no real difference between a punk and a hippie and that you should never trust either. Similarly, the distinction between pagan and Christian is impossible to maintain as soon as one reads a little religious history.

 

Take, for example, the idea of a human flock ... 

 

This is something I believed to be an exclusively Christian concept, referring to the followers of Jesus who styles himself as the good shepherd - i.e., one who not only knows and cares for his sheep, but is prepared to lay down his life for them [2]. 

But, thanks to Michel Foucault, I now discover: 

 

"The idea of a power that would be exercised on men in the same way as the shepherd's authority over his flock appeared long before Christianity. A whole series of very ancient texts and rites make reference to the shepherd and his animals to evoke the power of the gods or the prophets over the peoples they have the task of guiding." [3].

 

In ancient Egypt, for example, pharaohs received the emblems of the shepherd during their coronation ceremony; Babylonian and Assyrian kings were also awarded the title of shepherd, signifying their duty to safeguard the people over whom they ruled on behalf of the gods. 

 

By contrast, the ancient Greeks weren't so keen on thinking of themselves as a flock of sheep (or their rulers as shepherds) and the theme of pastoral power seems to have occupied only a minor place in their cultural imagination - even whilst it was customary amongst sculptors to produce figures known as Kriophoroi [4].

 

Foucault writes:

 

"The Homeric sovereigns were indeed designated as 'shepherds of the peoples', but without there being much more than a trace of ancient titulature. But later the Greeks don't seem to have been inclined to make the relation between the shepherd and his sheep the model of relation that must obtain between the citizens and those who command them." [5]

 

Of course, there were exceptions to this: Plato, for example - whom Nietzsche regards as a proto-Christian, preparing the ground for a slave revolt in morals - discussed pastoral power at some length in the Statesman, when he determines to define what the royal art of commanding consists in. 

 

However, it's important to note that Plato qualifies the idea and argues that, ultimately, the modern political leader must be more weaver than herdsman; i.e., one who who is able to pull together all the complex social elements and different classes of people into a single fabric. 

 

As we will see in part two of this post, it will take "the spread of oriental themes in Hellenistic and Roman culture for the pastorate to appear as the adequate image for representing the highest forms of power" [6]. 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] I'm referring here to the famous ending of George Orwell's 1945 novel, in which it becomes impossible to distinguish between pigs and humans around the card table.   

 

[2] See John 10:11-15: click here. 

 

[3] Michel Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, trans. Robert Hurley, (Penguin Books, 2021), Appendix 2, p. 302. 

 

[4] Often intended as representations of the god Hermes, Kriophoroi were figures bearing a sacrificial ram upon their shoulders. However, the figure of a shepherd carrying a lamb, simply as a pastoral vignette, was also common in ancient Greece and known by the same term. 

      The Christians adopted the image and made it their own; the Good Shepherd being the most common symbolic representation of Christ found in early Christian art in the Catacombs of Rome (before such imagery could be made explicit), and it continued to be used in the centuries after Christianity was legalized in 313. Initially, it was probably not understood to be a portrait of Jesus. However, by the 5th century the figure had taken on the conventional appearance of Christ in Christian art; the robes, the halo, the long flowing hair, etc.

 

[5] Foucault, Confessions of the Flesh, p. 303.

 

[6] Ibid., p. 304.      

    

 

To read part two of this post - on the human flock in the Judeo-Christian era - click here.

 

 

On Art and Hippology (With Reference to the Work of D. H. Lawrence)

Fig 1: D. H. Lawrence, Laughing Horse (c. 1924)

Fig 2: Josef Moest, Lady Godiva (1906) 

 

I. 

 

D. H. Lawrence had very definite ideas on most things, including the art of representation. 

 

Take a look fig. 1 above, for example, which he produced for a possible cover to an edition of Spud Johnson's two-bit literary magazine, The Laughing Horse [1].

 

It's arguable that what Lawrence is attempting here is to give us an impression of a horse that has something childlike about it. For Lawrence believed that a child sees things differently, more magically, than the average adult:

 

"When a boy of eight sees a horse, he doesn't see the correct biological object we intend him to see. He sees a big living presence of no particular shape with hair dangling from its neck and four legs. If he puts two eyes in the profile, he is quite right. Because he does not see with optical, photographic vision. The image on his retina is not the image of his consciousness. The image on his retina just does not go into him. His unconsciousness is filled with a strong, dark, vague prescience of a powerful presence, a two-eyed, four-legged, long-maned presence looming imminent. And to force the boy to see a correct one-eyed horse-profile is just like pasting a placard in front of his vision. It simply kills his inward seeing. We don't want him to see a proper horse. The child is not a little camera. He is a small vital organism which has direct dynamic rapport with the objects of the outer universe. He perceives from his breast and his abdomen, with deep-sunken realism, the elemental nature of the creature." [2]

 

However, if an adult is passionate enough - like an artist - then they retain the ability to see things like a child; i.e., as a kind of vibrating blur in which nothing is fixed and final. They can still see the horse as a darkly vital presence composed of a mane, a long face, a round nose, and four legs.

 

 

II.

 

I remembered what Lawrence wrote here when recently re-reading a discussion about art in Women in Love (1920). Or, more precisely, enjoying the argument between Ursula Brangwen and Loerke over the latter's sculpted bronze figure of a naked young girl sat upon a horse [3].

 

Ursula doesn't care for Loerke - despite the fact her sister Gudrun is very much drawn to him. And so, when he produces a photogravure reproduction of a statuette signed with his name, she is more inclined to be confrontational than complimentary: 

 

"The statuette was of a naked girl, small, finely made, sitting on a great naked horse. The girl was young and tender, a mere bud. She was sitting sideways on the horse, her face in her hands, as if in shame and grief, in a little abandon. Her hair, which was short and must be flaxen, fell forward, divided, half covering her hands. 

      Her limbs were young and tender. Her legs, scarcely formed yet, the legs of a maiden just passing towards cruel womanhood, dangled childishly over the side of the powerful horse, pathetically, the small feet folded one over the other, as if to hide. But there was no hiding. There she was exposed naked on the naked flank of the horse. 

      The horse stood stock still, stretched in a kind of start. It was a massive, magnificent stallion, rigid with pent-up power. Its neck was arched and terrible, like a sickle, its flanks were pressed back, rigid with power." [4]

 

Gudrun, who is also present, is clearly affected by the work: she turns pale, "and a darkness came over her eyes" [5]. She finds the horse phallic and wishes to know its size. But also she was thinking "of the slender, immature, tender limbs of the girl, smooth and cold in green bronze" [6]. 

 

Ursula, however, hates it:  

 

"'Why,' said Ursula, 'did you make the horse so stiff? It is as stiff as a block.'" [7]

 

Somewhat affronted by this, Loerke merely repeats the word stiff, obliging Ursula to expand upon her accusation: 

 

"'Yes. Look how stock and stupid and brutal it is. Horses are sensitive, quite delicate and sensitive, really.'" [8]

 

At this, Loerke "raised his shoulders, spread his hands in a shrug of slow indifference, as much as to inform her she was an amateur and an impertinent nobody" [9], before attempting to explain "with an insulting patience and condescension in his voice" [10], that the horse is not an actual living creature:

 

"'It is part of a work of art, a piece of form. It is not a picture of a friendly horse to which you give a lump of sugar, do you see - it is part of a work of art, it has no relation to anything outside that work of art.'" [11]

 

That, of course, in one sense at least, is quite true. But the opinionated somewhat provincial Brangwen girl is having none of it and creates quite the scene:

 

"Ursula, angry at being treated quite so insultingly de haut en bas, from the height of esoteric art to the depth of general exoteric amateurism, replied, hotly, flushing and lifting her face:  'But it is a picture of a horse, nevertheless.'

      [Loerke] lifted his shoulders in another shrug. 

      'As you like - it is not a picture of a cow, certainly.' 

      Here Gudrun broke in, flushed and brilliant, anxious to avoid any more of this, any more of Ursula's foolish persistence in giving herself away. 

      'What do you mean by "it is a picture of a horse?"' she cried at her sister. 'What do you mean by a horse? You mean an idea you have in your head, and which you want to see represented. There is another idea altogether, quite another idea. Call it a horse if you like, or say it is not a horse. I have just as much right to say that your horse isn't a horse, that it is a falsity of your own make-up.'

      Ursula wavered, baffled. Then her words came. 

      'But why does he have this idea of a horse?' she said. 'I know it is his idea. I know it is a picture of himself, really -' 

      Loerke snorted with rage. 

      'A picture of myself!' he repeated, in derision. 'Wissen sie, gnädige Frau, that is a Kunstwerk, a work of art. It is a work of art, it is a picture of nothing, of absolutely nothing. It has nothing to do with anything but itself, it has no relation with the everyday world of this and other, there is no connection between them, absolutely none, they are two different and distinct planes of existence, and to translate one into the other is worse than foolish, it is a darkening of all counsel, a making confusion everywhere. Do you see, you must not confuse the relative work of action, with the absolute world of art. That you must not do.' 

      'That is quite true,' cried Gudrun, let loose in a sort of rhapsody. 'The two things are quite and permanently apart, they have nothing to do with one another. I and my art, they have nothing to do with each other. My art stands in another world, I am in this world.' 

      Her face was flushed and transfigured. Loerke who was sitting with his head ducked, like some creature at bay, looked up at her, swiftly, almost furtively, and murmured: 

      'Ja - so ist es, so ist es.' 

      Ursula was silent after this outburst. She was furious. She wanted to poke a hole into them both. 

      'It isn’t a word of it true, of all this harangue you have made me,' she replied flatly. 'The horse is a picture of your own stock, stupid brutality, and the girl was a girl you loved and tortured and then ignored.' 

      He looked up at her with a small smile of contempt in his eyes. He would not trouble to answer this last charge. Gudrun too was silent in exasperated contempt. Ursula was such an insufferable outsider, rushing in where angels would fear to tread. But there - fools must be suffered, if not gladly. 

      But Ursula was persistent too. 

      'As for your world of art and your world of reality,' she replied, 'you have to separate the two, because you can't bear to know what you are. You can’t bear to realise what a stock, stiff, hide-bound brutality you are really, so you say "it's the world of art". The world of art is only the truth about the real world, that's all - but you are too far gone to see it.' 

      She was white and trembling, intent. Gudrun and Loerke sat in stiff dislike of her. Gerald too, who had come up in the beginning of the speech, stood looking at her in complete disapproval and opposition. He felt she was undignified, she put a sort of vulgarity over the esotericism which gave man his last distinction. He joined his forces with the other two. They all three wanted her to go away. But she sat on in silence, her soul weeping, throbbing violently, her fingers twisting her handkerchief." [12]

  

What, then, do we think of this? 

 

Well, I hate to say it - and don't want to sound like Clive Bell ecstatically singing the praises of significant form [13] - but I tend to agree with Loerke and Gudrun and think Ursula is being almost wilfully naive. 

 

Ultimately, it is irritating when individuals like Miss Brangwen insist that the plastic arts have to be representational; that a sculpture or painting must forever be referred back to a model in the real world; or that a horse is a horse of course of course ... 

 

 

Notes

 

[1] The Laughing Horse was irregularly published between 1921 and 1939 and celebrated the contemporary literary and artistic culture of the American West. 

      Willard ('Spud') Johnson was the principal editor and contributed much of the poetry, prose, and artwork himself. He also encouraged friends and acquaintances to submit material, including D. H. Lawrence, who had an entire issue devoted to his work in April 1926 (#13). 

      The laughing horse sketch by Lawrence was unused - perhaps because Lawrence got the price wrong; Johnson's magazine always sold for 25¢ (or two bits). It is reproduced in D. H. Lawrence's Paintings, ed. Keith Sagar, (Chaucer Press, 2003), p. 145. 

 

[2] D. H. Lawrence, Fantasia of the Unconscious, ed. Bruce Steele, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), p. 121.

      Lawrence was not alone in the view that the child sees - and draws - in a manner that is difficult for the adult to replicate. As Picasso once famously said: "It took me four years to paint like Raphael, but a lifetime to paint like a child."  

 

[3] Lawrence was most likely thinking of a patinated bronze sculpture by the German artist Josef Moest (1873-1914) entitled Lady Godiva (1906); see fig. 2 above.

 

[4-6] D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 429.    

 

[7-11] Ibid., p. 430.

[12] Ibid., pp. 430-31. 

[13] Significant form was a theory developed by English art critic Clive Bell which specified a set of criteria for what qualified as a work of art. In his 1914 book Art, for example, Bell argues that art transports us from the actual world of existence to one of aesthetic exaltation. 

      Lawrence hates this kind of abstract idealism, so popular amongst the Bloomsbury elite of his time, and he openly attacks Bell in his own writings on art, which can be found in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004). For an excellent discussion of all this see chapter 4 of Anne Fernihough's, D. H. Lawrence: Aesthetics and Ideology, (Oxford University Press, 1993).   

 

 

Blue Balls (With Reference to the Work of Jeff Koons and D. H. Lawrence)

Jeff Koons with one of his blue gazing balls

Photo by Lucy Young

 

 

Like the American comedian Jena Friedman, I've long admired the artist Jeff Koons and so I would share her sadness at having to write something "even remotely negative about this purveyor of the shiny and provocative" [1] - we can leave this to the philosopher Byung-Chul Han, who loathes the aesthetics of the smooth and famously compared Koons's artwork to Brazilian waxing [2]. 

Fortunately, therefore - and unlike Ms Friedman - I have a rather more positive view of the blue gazing balls [3] that Koons has ingeniously placed on little shelves in front of various reproductions of classical and modern masterpieces, including works by Rembrandt, Manet, and Picasso - he even stuck one in front of his enlarged version of the Mona Lisa (see below).   

According to Koons, these large glass baubles represent the vastness of the universe, whilst also giving us a sense of the intimacy of the here and now [4]. I'm not sure about that - and this isn't why I like the gazing balls. 

 

I like them, because they make me want to smash them; make me want like an excitable child to cup the little globe of magnificent full dark-blue in my hands and then toss it up in the air, allowing it to fall with a little splashing explosion on the floor; make me want to take one of the fragments and examine it closely in all its broken brilliance [5].   

 

More, I feel like taking one of the spheres and bringing it hard down on the head of the viewer who stands before it and admires their own reflection; they who only see themselves in each and every great work of art (their experiences, their desires, their lives); they who only want to know what an image means so they can explain it away.

 

This lust for knowledge is what Rupert Birkin describes as the conceit of consciousness: "'You want it all in that loathsome little skull of yours, that ought to be cracked like a nut'" [6] - isn't that what he says to Hermione the great lover of art and culture?  

   

And yet, ironically, it's she who brings a ball of lapis lazuli crashing down on his head five chapters later, achieving her voluptuous consummation:

 

"Her arms quivered and were strong, immeasurably and irresistibly strong. What delight, what delight in strength, what delirium of pleasure! She was going to have her consummation of voluptuous ecstasy at last. It was coming! In utmost terror and agony, she knew it was upon her now, in extremity of bliss. Her hand closed on a blue, beautiful ball of lapis lazuli that stood on her desk for a paper-weight. She rolled it around in her hand as she rose silently. Her heart was a pure flame in her breast, she was purely unconscious in ecstasy. She moved towards him and stood behind him for a moment in ecstasy. He, closed within the spell, remained motionless and unconscious. 

      Then swiftly, in a flame that drenched down her body like fluid lightning, and gave her a perfect, unutterable consummation, unutterable satisfaction, she brought down the ball of jewel stone with all her force, crash on his head." [7]

As I say, that's what I'd like to do with one of Koons's gazing balls, thereby transforming it from an object of narcissistic self-reflection into a weapon to be used against those who just have to put themselves into every picture.

 

 

Jeff Koons: Gazing Ball (da Vinci Mona Lisa) (2015)

Oil on canvas, glass, and aluminum 

jeffkoons.com 

 

  

Notes

 

[1] Jena Friedman, 'Why Jeff Koons's Blue 'Gazing Balls' Give Mona Lisa Something New to Smirk About', Artnet News (22 June 2017): click here. 

[2] See Byung-Chul Han, Saving Beauty, trans. Daniel Steuer, (Polity Press, 2018). The opening sentence of the first chapter reads: "The smooth is the signature of the present time. It connects the sculptures of Jeff Koons, i-Phones and Brazilian waxing." 

      For my discussion of the aesthetics (and politics) of smoothness with reference to the above text and the work of Jeff Koons, click here. 

 

[3] Gazing balls - or what Americans rather prosaically call yard globes - are mirrored spheres, ranging in size, and now mostly used as garden ornaments. Traditionally made of glass, they are now often stainless steel, ceramic, or plastic.

      The speheres originated in 13th-century Italy, where they were hand-blown by skilled Venetian craftsmen, but were popularised by King Ludwig II of Bavaria, in the 19th-century and appear in a number of gardens designed in the modern period (particularly in the 1930s). However, they seemed a bit naff by the 1950s - only slightly more sophisticated than garden gnomes. 

 

[4] See the article by Alex Needham - 'Jeff Koons on his Gazing Ball Paintings: "It's not about copying''', The Guardian (9 November, 2015): click here.

 

[5] I'm recalling the scene from chapter I - 'The Blue Ball - of D. H. Lawrence's novel Aaron's Rod (1922) in which a young girl (Millicent) breaks a Christmas ornament and her father (Aaron) then carefully examines one of the pieces. See pp. 10-11 of the Cambridge edition, ed. Mara Kalnins, (1988).   

 

[6] D. H. Lawrence, Women in Love, ed. David Farmer, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 1987), p. 42.

 

[7] Ibid., p. 105. 

 

 

In Memory of Leslie Phillips

Leslie Phillips (1924-2022)

 

I. 

 

I was genuinely saddened to hear of the death of Leslie Phillips, who has always been one of my favourite comic actors. 

 

I loved him in the Carry On films - particularly as PC Tom Potter in Carry On Constable (1960), which is one of the best in the series in my view - and I loved him in the Doctor films - particularly as Dr Gaston Grimsdyke in Doctor in Clover (1966), trying to look young and trendy so as to seduce Jeannine Belmond, the beautiful physiotherapist played by Elizabeth Ercy. 

But I also loved him in lesser known films from this period, such as In the Doghouse (1961), in which he plays the kind-hearted vet Jimmy Fox-Upton alongside the lovely Irish actress Peggy Cummins, playing showgirl Sally Huxley (partnered by a chimpanzee in her act who is amusingly billed as the Hairy Houdini).

 

 

II. 

 

Once, whilst in a departure lounge at Heathrow waiting to board a flight to Barcelona, I sat next to Phillips, who - like his inspiration Terry Thomas - had a house in Ibiza. 

 

I wanted to say hello, but, on the other hand, I didn't want to pester him and one never knows with famous people whether they like to be approached or not. 

 

Also, some actors prefer it if you mention their more serious roles from later in their career and Phillips, lest we forget, appeared in some major Hollywood films, including Out of Africa (1985) alongside Robert Redford and Meryl Streep, as well as Empire of the Sun (1987) alongside Christopher Bale and John Malkovich.

 

These are undoubtedly great movies and huge stars. But, to be honest, these films and these actors mean nothing to me compared to the cast of Carry On Constable.

 

And so I simply followed the elderly Phillips on to the plane in silence ...

 

However, whilst it's not a matter of deep regret, I do now see this as a missed opportunity to thank someone for providing many moments of cinematic joy. 

 

 

Click here for the trailer to Carry On Constable (dir. Gerald Thomas, 1960).

 

Click here for the trailer to Doctor in Clover (dir. Ralph Thomas, 1966). 

In Praise of the Swift and Hannah Bourne-Taylor

Photo of a swift (Apus apus) by David Chapman

saga.co.uk 

 

 

I. 

 

I like most birds. 

 

But I particularly like the little birds that used to be seen in British skies and which I remember from my childhood: birds like the swift, for example, which I was saddened (but not surprised) to discover is now on the conservation red list; i.e., heading for extinction unless action is taken swiftly to enable it to survive [1].  

 

If a bird can be characterised as a warm-blooded vertebrate possessing feathers which likes to nest and lay eggs, for me it's the ability to fly that really makes a bird a bird [2]. 

 

And the swift can fly further, faster and higher than almost any other bird; they even eat, sleep, and mate on the wing, hardly ever bothering to land. So this makes it a kind of super-bird in my eyes, although it used to be popularly known as the devil bird (perhaps because of its forked tail).

 

Like other small birds, such as swallows and sparrows, they like to live in tiny gaps in the roofs and walls of old houses and churches. But thanks to our obsession today with renovation and insulation - and the ugly new buildings which are designed to afford no other creature shelter or sanctuary - their traditional nest sites are fast disappearing.     

 

Personally, I don't want to live in a world without nooks and crannies, moonlight, moths and spider-webs. And I certainly don't want to live in a world without swifts, which is why I fully support the actions of Hannah Bourne-Taylor - a posh bird prepared to get her kit off in defence of a once common little bird ...

 

II.

 

Whilst I like birds, Hannah Bourne-Taylor really likes birds - and she's particularly a fan of the swift, as a video uploaded to YouTube earlier this year makes clear: click here. 

 

This is the kind of woman who would let a baby finch nest in her hair for three months [3], so obviously she'd be prepared to strip naked on a chilly November day and march through London wearing nothing but bodypaint designed by the Italian artist Guido Daniele to resemble the markings on a bird as part of a campaign (supported by the RSPB and Rewriting Extinction) to support declining species in the UK. 

 

And good on her, I say, though - and this is a small quibble - if you're going to stage a naked protest, then do remove your knickers, otherwise it somewhat lessens the impact and seems a bit lame.

 

On Bonfire Day, Ms Bourne-Taylor first made a speech at Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park, then set off to Downing Street where she submitted a petition to Number 10, asking that so-called swift bricks [4] be made compulsory in new housing developments. 

Ms Bourne-Taylor is hoping that her petition will gather 100,000 signatures, so that it will be debated in Parliament. Obviously, I wish her luck with that and encourage readers to add their name to the petition by clicking here.

Photo credit: PA Images

hannahbournetaylor.com

Notes

[1] The breeding population of swifts in the UK has fallen by 50% in the last twenty years. There are now thought to be around 59,000 breeding pairs. 

 

[2] I am aware, obviously, that there are species of flightless birds, including penguins and emus, for example, but these creatures have, through evolution, lost the ability to fly (which is why they still possess wings).  

[3] I'm not exaggerating or making this up; see her piece in The Guardian (25 March, 2022): click here.

 

[4] Swift bricks, are as the name suggests, bricks with a hollow space that provides a suitable nesting environment for swifts, or other small birds, including sparrows, house martins, and starlings.  

 

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.