A lot of reviewers are focusing on Bob Dylan’s aping of Phillips’ cover pose and costume on the front of Desire, but the most interesting things about Wolfking –and there are plenty–are in the grooves. This storied 1969 solo disk from the ravaged ex-Papa proves that not just symbolist poets make their best work when systematically deranging souls and senses. (Of course, Rimbaud didn’t surround himself with ace players from the Wrecking Crew and Elvis’ band, nor with the Blossoms on backing vox.) Wolfking is an eclectic, ambitious and playful romp through scenes of Hollywood and Malibu excess and redemption, exquisitely sung and arranged. Phillips’ style fuses country, pop, scat, gospel and soul in a very personal and appealing way. Eight strong bonus tracks easily turns the disk into a shoulda-been double, including the tender "Lady Genevieve" which negates some of the emotional ugliness of "Let It Bleed, Genevieve" from the original album, and ending with the superior single version of "Mississippi."
(Buy from Amazon. See also Brian Doherty’s review of the album from the Lost in the Grooves book.)
While it certainly wouldn’t qualify for Paul Schrader’s canon of great films (or anybody else’s, for that matter, including mine), whenever I happen across this 1957 movie (sometimes calling itself The Abominable Snowman of the Himalayas) when it airs on Turner Classic Movies, I inevitably watch until the end. Director Val Guest treats screenwriter Nigel Kneale’s intelligent script so matter-of-factly that parts of the movie achieve a documentary feel (helped along, admittedly, by the wealth of stock footage of the Himalayan mountain range and avalanches).
I remember staying up late one night to watch this, for the first time, as a child, and being absolutely mesmerized by Peter Cushing’s long-awaited face-to-face encounter with the Yeti. The effect remains the same for me today: menace mixing with mystery as the unbelievably tall beings step from the shadow into the light, finally revealing the eyes of the Yeti. Those age-old eyes.
“You see, in this world there is one awful thing, and that is that everyone has his reasons.”
I’ve known that quote well for many years, thanks to the writings of Paul Nelson (who referenced it often), just as I’ve known that the man responsible for originally uttering those words was Jean Renoir. But until last week, when I watched his fine film The Rules of the Game for the first time in over twenty years, I didn’t know (or I’d forgotten) that the quote emanated therein. Spoken by the pivotal character Octave, played by Renoir himself, hearing the words spoken aloud, in French, was a surprise and a revelation.
(In writing a biography of Paul Nelson and collecting his best writings into book form, and trying to understand how someone so talented and so loved came to an end that few of his old friends could comprehend — living a life that was solitary at best, lonely at worst, while no longer writing for publication — I’ve been tempted to rely on Renoir’s words to explain and excuse what happened. Thus far that strikes me as too easy; but then, I’ve more than once used Renoir’s quote to explain my own actions.)
In the September/October 2006 issue of Film Comment, director Paul Schrader writes an ambitious, lengthy (the longest article the magazine has published in its 42 years), erudite, and sometimes impenetrable piece entitled “The Film Canon” (the introduction to which may currently be found online). Supposedly sans favoritism and “taste, personal and popular,” based on “those movies that artistically defined film history,” he cites The Rules of the Game as the number one greatest film of all time.
According to Schrader: “For me the artist without whom there could not be a film canon is Jean Renoir, and the film without which a canon is inconceivable is The Rules of the Game.”
It is no doubt a great film: funny and poignant and heartbreaking and, ultimately, very moral (thus satisfying Schrader’s dictum that “no work that fails to strike moral chords can be canonical”). But even if it were not, if it were only a so-so movie that happened to contain Renoir’s memorable quote, which spoke to me last week as if it were Paul Nelson trying to help me understand, there’d be a place in my heart for The Rules of the Game.
I believe this is the catalogue to the Jean-Luc Godard exhibiton at the Centre Pompidou in Paris. I understand that there was a falling out between the subject of the exhibiton and the Pompidou. Nevertheless there is a show, and what I have read of it, sounds fascinating.
For us Americans, Raymond Queneau’s name comes up between other writers. Georges Perec, Georges Bataille, Andre Breton, Michel Leiris, and so forth. He is also for the causal reader a hard writer to get a clear picture of his writing. In an essence he was the shadow writer of the 20th Century.
The first book I read of Queneau’s was “Exercises in Style,â€Â which in one way serves as a writing manual while at the same time it is a witty a charming piece of fiction. The thing is with Queneau’s writing is that you get a duality – that I think is important in his work.
One of his masterpieces (I tend to like everything by an author I admire) is “Hundred Thousand Billion Poems.â€Â It is a work that is never in place, it consistently moves. I think poetry should be written in air instead on rock. Or a book that looks like one of those changeable head/bodies/legs books.
Queneau’s most beloved book is probably “Zazie n the Metro.â€Â Written n colloquial French instead of academic French, Zazie was considered to be a work from a rebel. But a charming rebel. The book is charming with regards of Zazie investigating Paris via the Metro system. A great city novel.
For the Boris Vian obsessive I strongly recommend a book Queneau wrote under another name Sally Mara. Like Vian’s ‘Vernon Sullivan’ Queneau wrote a noir thriller called “We Always Treat Women Too Well.â€Â In many ways it is the sister or brother to Vian/Sullivan’s “I Spit on Your Graves.
“Let me tell you about the very rich,” F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote. “They are different from you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts, that they are better than we are because we had to discover the compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that they are better than we are. They are different.”ÂÂ
The very rich are also different because they can afford to spend $4.00 for a regular order of fries at Pommes Frites in Manhattan’s East Village.ÂÂ Six and a quarter will get you an unbelievably large helping and, if you’re hosting a small party, you can order a double for $7.50.
Now, I’m not very rich (or even rich), but I partake of Pommes Frites — where the fries aren’t French, they’re Belgian — whenever possible. Two nights ago, I circled the block numerous times, each time more desperately, in search of a parking space. Parking, alas, is the only thing missing from Pommes Frites’ menu. Last night, however, thanks to nydeborah graciously offering to remain in the double-parked car while I hurried into the restaurant — as deep as a sidewalk is long, and about as wide, too — I got my fryÂÂ fix.ÂÂ
About the menu: fries. That’s it. Just fries — and more than two dozen gourmet dipping sauces. For a boy from Salt Lake City, the home of fry sauce, this is heaven on earth. I recommend the roasted garlic mayo.ÂÂ
Like all things truly decadent, the desire to gorge yourself with these long, lithe pieces of potato is quickly satisfied; but that doesn’t stop you from wanting more, eating more. And by the time you’re finished, a slightly dirty feeling supplants the one of satisfaction, and you drop your head into your greasy hands, stomach so full it aches. But, ending this post with a quote by the same author with whom it began, “Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure.”
He had a major impact on one pop artist, David Bowie. He has admitted that Taylor was an influence for his Ziggy Stardust character. No, Taylor was not from outer space, he was from somewhere better: England.
Taylor became obsessed with Jesus of sorts and became a cult leader in the UK. He went from wearing all black to all white. In a sense from the negative to the positive. But what inspired Bowie was the pop singer as a religious messiah. Vince Taylor was that, but first he had to become a huge star in France.
I strongly suggest that you look up ‘Vince Taylor’ on YouTube.com. These little films are pure rock n’ roll imagery. In fact I can’t think of anything else that combines the imagery of Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising to rockabilly.
For more ‘practical’ info on Vince Taylor check out: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vince_Taylor
Before penning lyrics for Jesus Chris Superstar and Evita, Sir Tim was a London songwriter on the make. This 21 track pre-history compiles the stagey novelties, production disasters and starlet-crooned pop ditties he helped birth from 1965 through 1969. Featured cuts include The Mannfred-esque sounds of The Shell, usually elegant vocalist Murray Head delivering the snotty put-down “You Bore Me” over a Hollywood Argyles-style studio slop backing, sexy girl vocalist Ross Hannaman evoking M. Faithfull on “Down Thru’ Summer” and the hippie apocalypse on “1969” (about as far as Gainsbourg and Birkin’s erotic year as can be imagined) and Tales of Justine’s utterly daft psychedelic morsel upon a sunflower called Albert. About as mixed a bag as it sounds, but quite a fun slice of times.
The NY Times has printed a retraction to their obit for songwriter Paul Vance of “Itsy Bitsy Teenie Weenie Yellow Polka Dot Bikini” infamy. It seems the fellow who died was not the pop tunesmith, but a fellow in Florida who has long misled his loved ones that he was responsible for the hit, but was cheated out of his royalties. Doubtless this made for amusing light conversation for many years, but the fake Paul Vance probably didn’t anticipate his family announcing his death to the press. Meanwhile, the real Paul Vance is cranky that a couple of his ponies were pulled from a race out of respect for his non-passing, and worried he might stop getting royalties if people think he’s dead.
Milk it, real Paul Vance: this is a rare opportunity to see what folks really think of you.
![[info]](https://stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
