MiSC/MEDiA: Why I Loathe TV Advertising With Such Abiding Passion

The restaurant scene from Brazil superbly captures the gulf between products as advertised and as actually delivered.

This isn’t my first post on this topic. I doubt it’ll be my last. Why return to such a theme? This time it was prompted by a silly FB post by a friend about which David Bowie number, of four he specified, ‘would you rather’… etc.

Pointless silliness, perhaps? Well, yes. I.e. totally suited to and at home on FB. As, indeed, is the constant harassment of advertising. But it so happened that the most popular choice was Heroes. Admittedly an excellent song. But, for me at least, tarnished by its heavy usage in adverts.

I also recall the pride with which several drummers on a FB drummer’s forum related that they had been in that recent ad’ for a gambling sports sponsor that features hordes of drummers. I’m glad to say I can’t recall exactly which such parasitic body it was.

I’d love the exposure that might bring (well, perhaps for a few of the more ‘featured’ of the many hundreds of otherwise anonymous players). And I’m sure the nuts and bolts of actually filming it might also be fun. Did all these drummers get get paid, I wonder?

But what about taking a principled stand against the cancerous blight on our society that is gambling? Or even advertising as a whole? Or, better still, advertising as a hole… specifically, an arsehole’!

Talkin’ ass: the allure of the ad’ (Renault Megane).
The anti-climax super-unsexy reality!

That’s r-r-r-r-right f-f-f-f-folks, I’m talkin’ ass! Now I felt this way long before I saw Bill Hicks do his anti-advertising schtick. Indeed, a loathing for advertising – and a contempt for gambling – was something I learned at home, mostly (I believe?) from my father.

But in order to keep things relatively short and ‘sweet’ here and now, let’s wrap this up with a short consideration of ‘the asshole in contemporary culture’ (sounds like a topic on a college degree syllabus!).

It turns out that some of the ugliest ideas of the worst types of racists and those dearest to many a ruling elite converge, for differing reasons, around a certain nexus of ideas. As mentioned above, I don’t intend to go into great detail on the subject(s) here. Perhaps another time?

What I will say is that there’s a culture of brashly aggressive ugliness, massively on the increase, from the politics of Trump, to the shouted egotism in rap, or the gurgling screams of extreme metal. It’s also manifest in the strident upbeat chirpiness, and even – I contend – the zombie-smiling lockstep of Nuremberg-rally style formation dancing.

The massive and very visible rise of the latter, especially obvious in advertising, had me baffled for a little while? Why the sudden effusion of such stuff? And then it struck me; we now have loads of educational institutions, pumping out hordes of glassy eyed dreamers, who have become production line product, trained in dance and/or drama.

And what’s the glorious acme of their profession most might earn a buck or two from? Depressingly, it’s advertising. I suppose some might get Butlin’s style gigs. Some might go on to teach more aspiring dreamers. But, as with Fine Arts and Music, most will have to eke out a living by other means.

Dammit! I’m still skirting around my chief focus… the omnipresent asshole! So, let’s get to it, let’s really get stuck into the fundament/als! Thar’ she blows…

Basically it boils down to this; would you be happy inviting the kind of hectoring, patronising, wheedling, insinuating assholes that one hears in advertising in off the street to harangue you in your home? ‘Cause that’s what we’re all doing, when we tolerate advertising.

Again, rather depressingly, that’s what a great deal of what I’m increasingly thinking of as contemporary serf-culture trains us to do. If you like a lot of modern pop music, which includes supposedly ‘underground’ or counterculture (but in reality totally commercially co-opted) genres like rap or metal, you’re already being inoculated in the required ‘herd immunity’ to such internalised or even self-inflicted bullying.

Anyway, enough ranting, or sounding off, or whatever it may be. For now! my thoughts on all this are fairly clear, if not, perhaps, terribly well formed. But they may change, with time, and further consideration or information. For the time being, however, I remain resolute in my disavowal of the pollution that is most TV advertising.

MEDiA/MUSiC: Cowboy Song, Phil Lynott Biog’

Excited to have this to read!

Hannah, my sister, bought me this book for Yuletide. Thanks, Hannah!

Having been on a longer than usual break from reading, I’m looking for’ard to getting stuck in to this! This isn’t a review of the book, obviously. How could it be, not having read it yet!? It gets glowing reviews. But I’ve found that’s not necessarily any guarantee I’ll like something!

Phil’s solo debut. He always looked pretty damn cool!

Interesting that it’s named for a Lizzy fan favourite which, whilst perfectly good in a ‘standard fare’ way, is far from a being a favourite of mine. Were I to write a Lynott biog it’d prob’ be called Still In Love With You. Partly ‘cause that’s a blindingly brilliant song, and partly because it perfectly captures both how I feel about Lynott, and also the plaintive poetic heartache that makes a lot of his and Lizzy’s best music so good.

A favourite platter in my teen years!

It’s that aspect I love most, about Thin Lizzy, in addition to their perhaps more usually celebrated rock n roll bombast. And then there’s Phil’s solo stuff. I don’t really know Solo In Soho very well (writing this has prompted me to remedy that, by ordering it off Amazon!). But I’ve long known and loved The Phil Lynott Album. A true classic, on which his mellower muse is allowed freer rein than it is on the final few Lizzy albums.

Seriously cool cats know about the good stuff!*

* I hope Theo K does actually dig Lizzy, and it’s not just a ‘funky tee’ thang!?

MUSiC: Can, Live, Soest, 1970

I wound up watching this this evening, prior to breaking out the ‘new’ Can CD that arrived from Amazon today, namely Live In Stuttgart, 1975.

I watched several other shorter live Can videos as well. It seems more such material is coming online. My last Can-fest, some years ago now, involved a lot of searching online, and didn’t turn up some of these newer finds.

Two particularly groovy videos are Vitamin C, with Damo, and Moonshake, the latter sadly sans Suzuki, but still terrific.

Karussell für die Jugend indeed!

This concert was the longest that I watched. And I’ll confess I skipped through a few segments. I will watch the whole thing at some point. But in truth I just wanted to ‘prep’ myself for listening to the newly arrived Stuttgart recordings.

Track one at Soest is not a promising or auspicious beginning, to be perfectly honest. The guitar and bass DIY d out of tune. And it comes over as a somewhat punky Malcolm Mooney era type leftover.

But, to my delight and astonishment, this was immediately followed by Oh Yeah, which is stupendously groovy. Riding along on a signature Jaki Leibezeit groove, this one both motorik and jazzy simultaneously, the rest of the band provide haunting sonic sculptures, and Dani’s singing brings the Can jamming into a song type focus. Sublime!

Interestingly, the initially baffled audience is gradually won over by the earnest intensity of the performance. Despite Can sporting the togs and hairstyles of their contemporary hipster crew, and, to a degree, the young audience, they play with a fairly self-contained unaffected manner. Only Suzuki, in his semi-shamanic frontman role, getting a bit wilder at times.

Shamanic loonbag Damo Suzuki, in full effect!

Holger Czukay is great to watch. Holding his bass at an unusual slanted angle, and clearly totally into the music. His head-nodding ‘in the zone’ mien perfectly encapsulates, for me, what this group and their music are all about.

At some point in the set the band get the audience clapping, and from that point on the vibe in the room – at least as conveyed visually – has thawed from cold incomprehension to warm admiration, and a good deal of fairly abandoned enjoyment. Some guys are kind of ‘freak-dancing’, and even some of the chicks are digging it.

Towards the end of the set they play another of my Suzuki era faves, Paperhouse. I’m not sure, but I think this might be one of the old Can concerts that’s part of a current wave of live Can reissues. In which case, I look forward to listening to and watching it again. Next time I won’t be pressing fast-forward!

Jaki Leibezeit grooves like a mother!

MUSiC: Tago Mago, 1971 (40th Anniversary remaster, bonus tracks)

I usually prefer to buy CDs, as I’m a bit old fashioned that way. But this is selling for silly money on CD, so I’ve had to content to myself with downloading MP3s.

I already have Tago Mago on both vinyl and CD-reissue. But this 40th Anniversary re-re-issue has allegedly been significantly improved audio wise. Plus there are three bonus tracks. This being one of my all time favourite Can albums, I had to hear it.

The first four tracks are just mindblowingly awesome. To me at any rate. And they are why this gets five stars.

Paperhouse is kind of oddball, starting with a loping laidback but intense 6/8 groove and one of Michael Karoli’s best ever guitar parts, before turning into one of their hyper intense thermo-nuclear jams, finally emerging the other side, into a laid back jazzy swang-thang version of part one. Part one is my favourite section, followed by the jazzy re-iteration. But the whole thing is a real trip, in the parlance of those days.

Mushroom is fabulous. But I’ve waxed lyrical over that one elsewhere, and don’t want to repeat myself here. Likewise, Oh Yeah is just totally awesome. And it’s driven along on a groove by Leibezeit that I utterly adore. But I’ll say no more about it here for now.

Halleluwah- what a fantastic title! – is an epic grinding groove monster. Once again Jaki Leibezeit’s drum performance is just utterly flawless, and sublimely funky. But, as brilliant as he is, it only really becomes the complete Can experience because of what the collective bring to bear. And it’s a juggernaut of awesomeness!

And what about that middle eight or interlude? Which is followed by a kind of music concrete section of ‘noise’ solos, conjured from synths, guitars, percussion and goodness knows what.

My preferred version of the cover.

For me it’s these four tracks that make Tago Mago an undeniably essential recording. And whilst I haven’t yet done a direct A/B/C comparison across the vinyl and my two different remasters as yet, there is both an intensity and clarity to these recordings that does seem to me to bring a new depth and power to bear.

And these recordings have always kicked aural ass, as far as I’m concerned. So for them to grow even bigger hairier musical balls, so to speak, is wonderful.

Oh, and whilst – perhaps partly cause I’m a drummer – I feel Jaki Leibezeit was Can’s secret weapon number one. After him I have to single out Damo Suzuki, whose nutty shamanic hollering and lyrics/melodies really add the song dimension to what might otherwise have been an amazing instrumental jam band.

But having singled out Leibezeit and Suzuki, whilst still listening to an extended instrumental section of Halleluwah I can’t not mention Irmin Schmidt, Michael Karoli and Holger Czukay. These cats are awesome. They really know how to brew up a cosmic groove!

Although it’s massively different from Weather Report, it’s also fundamentally very similar. If not in exact musical styles or textures, in that everyone is always soloing and yet no one is soloing. And at their mighty beating heart it’s all about improvisation.

This latest remaster is really something! I usually lose interest after Halleluwah. But Aumgn is playing now, and it’s fantastic. It’s certainly less accessible and compelling than the first four tracks. But as art-rock experimentation it’s top notch. I usually find such stuff anathema. But the clarity and sonic depth and richness of this latest remaster is helping me hear this afresh.

It may perhaps wear out its welcome eventually. But there are some terrific moments. What sounds like a bowed double bass at one point, achieves a sonority that’s astonishing, made more so by the context. But, as we pass ten minutes, even though the sounds are now pretty pristine, and continue to morph through numerous soundscapes, as improved as it is, and as good as it is in its own (left) field, It’s charm is starting to feel spread rather thin!

But wait, there’s the famed barking dog! Crazy stuff. In the end, thanks to the improved sound, I find I can take this monstrously indulgent bit of experimental improv’ much better now. It helps that I’m a drummer as the final five or so minutes are essentially a drum solo.

Czukay and Suzuki in session.

They finally do lose me, with Peking-O, which I could happily do without, improved sound or no. Bring Me Coffee Or Tea is a ‘slight return’, to a more typical Can sound of the era. And it’s good. Especially with the improved clarity making all the parts crisper and clearer than ever before. But as good as it is, it’s not up there with the first four tracks.

So, the original album is done, by this point. And, improved as it very audibly is, it remains a beast of two parts for me: the first entirely sublime. The second a much more mixed bag. Next up are the extra bonus live tracks.

Mushroom (Live, ‘72) is illustrative of how even when revisiting ‘compositions’, Can’s improv’ imperative might render the track almost unrecognisable. This is a decent variation, showing plenty of imagination. But it’s not a patch on the official Tago Mago album version.

Next is a much more recognisable rendition of the song Spoon, the final track on 1972’s Ege Bamyasi. Spoon was also a surprise chart hit in Germany, helping bring the babd greater prominence (and leading to their famed free concert). But this time it’s not just the song we get, but a doorway into an überjam. The initial part is a pretty decent version, and nice for a Can fan to have/hear. But when it goes into the lengthy jam then it’s a more debatable proposition.

I’ve yet to take the plunge with Can’s Lost Tapes, mostly ‘cause I fear that the best stuff was put out. What remained on the cutting room floor, must therefore, inevitably, be less good. Surely? Given the nature of their ‘process’, a lot of less compelling material had to be worked through to birth the real gems. This extended version of Spoon, which meanders around a lot, mostly quite aimlessly, morphing in places into other songs (there’s a definite Coffee Of Tea passage!), kind of backs such ideas up.

The third and final live extra is a version of Halleluwah. This has the most noticeable layer of audible hiss, and still retains a pretty muddy sound. So was this perhaps the most challenging ‘restoration’ from the famed Can archives represented here? Whilst this remains a closer rendition than the first of the three live cuts presented here, it lacks the focus, punch and outright balls of the studio/album version.

In conclusion, the added live material is nice for the Can fan, of which I’m certainly one. But it’s not what’s best about this whole package, which remains tracks one to four. And the whole caboodle, most notably the official album tracks are also fairly clearly sonically improved. So it’s really just for tracks one through four, in their improved state, that I shelled out for this third iteration of this classic album.

MUSiC: Song To A Seagull, 1967-8

Holy-guacamole! What an astonishing debut. Joni Mitchell just knocks me off my feet. I’m winded, as if with a hefty punch to the solar plexus. And tears come. The music is just so powerful. The swift one-two combination of I Had A King and Michael From Mountains is a pair of knockout blows right from the get go.

The other and most notable thing, for me, is the emotional register of it all. It’s beautifully and very powerfully melancholy. Even Night In The City, the most overtly or ostensibly ‘jolly’ song – track three (a perfectly good song, but the weakest here, for my money) – has an inescapable element of that Joni blue.

After the slight anomaly of Night In The City, come Marcie and Nathan La Franeer, and we’re plunged back into the cold icy waters of Joni’s oceanic Northern consciousness. When we get to Sisotowbell Lane, any dam on my constipated emotions is obliterated. I love the entire album. But Sisotowbell Lane is a snowy peak of Himalayan stratosphere piercing sublimity.

But, as if to confound my gushing hyperbole, she follows this with the magnificence of The Dawntreader. This album could easily be the dictionary or Brewer’s definition of the phrase ‘an embarrassment of riches’.

Mercifully the intensity let’s up a fraction with the slightly strident mildly experimental Pirate of Penance, and remains at a lower ebb for the title track. Every single track, save perhaps Night In The City, gives the lie to the ‘female folkie’ label occasionally applied to Joni (esp. in her early days*), as they are all far more richly complex, more ‘compositional’…

And so we come to journey’s end, with Cactus Tree. And once again we’re stood atop a mountain, or are we riding the crest of an emotional wave of titanic oceanic proportions? How could such a slight willowy polio afflicted young woman become the lightning rod for such powerful elemental forces?

As long as I live I will love Joni with an unrequited passion. Who was it – Woody Allen, perhaps? – that said unrequited love was the only kind that really lasts! Song to a Seagull is an astonishing album. A masterpiece. And that it was Joni’s debut is even more astounding.

The version I’ve just listened to, which ended with uncanny Joni-esque perfection just as I arrived at work (how will I explain my puffy red teary eyes?), is the recent 2021 remaster, from the Reprise Records reissue box. It’s been ‘improved’, from the original David Crosby produced sessions, apparently.

I have to confess that I don’t find the engineering or production interventions particularly noteworthy, or even very noticeable (mind, this particular listen was whilst driving, so the music was competing with all the noises associated with that). Although STAS is sonically different to the following albums, that’s also part it’s period charm.

The remaster certainly doesn’t spoil that. But nor, so far at any rate, to my ears, does it radically alter or improve it. STAS simply remains a sublime slice of early Joni. Totally essential, in my world.

* One has to go back to her pre album café gig era, some of which is documented on the terrific Volume 1, The Early Years, 1963-1967, from the marvellous Joni Mitchell Archives series, to find her sounding like a more typical ‘60s folkster.

MUSiC: Rant – Why Do People Like Such Awful Pap Pop?

Chester’s purring away contentedly!

I’m sitting in my lounge, Chester‘s dozing in his plush furry ‘dog bed’, purring noisily and happily, and I’m thinking about posting again here, on having painted my tool caddy.

Anne, our next door neighbour is, it seems, in her lounge, the other side of a lamentably thin partition wall. And she’s listening to some awful pop dreck. No idea who it is, but it’s alternating shouty raps with primary coloured auto-tuned fem-vocs.

From Alan Partridge to this popular YouTuber…

It’s not awfully loud thank goodness. But it’s audible to me. Which is a real pity! It’s so obvious, predictable, mainstream. To me it’s brainless, heartless, but most damningly of all, soul-less. As a rationalist who’s not religious the turn my language took there is intriguing!

Anyway, returning to the, ahem… ‘music’, the yin and yang of it. The Yin or female component seems narcissistic in a look at me I’m a Barbie princess way, whilst the Yang is narcissistic in an hyper-aggressive shouty way. Neither are attractive to me.

… I’m not alone in my feelings!

But I suppose I’m not the intended target market. But those two words, target market, sum it up for me. This is not art to enrich the life of the soul (at least not as I understand such things), so to speak, but product to help lobotomise the drones, and keep the capitalist machine ticking over.

Right… a phone call from a drum pupil’s parent has just interrupted my musings. With that finished and out of the way, I’m suddenly and very happily conscious that the music next door has stopped. What bliss!

CLOTHES/MiSC: T-shirts as Signals

My most recent acquisition in this line.

As a kid I had a few T-shirts – only a very few, mind – that proclaimed something.

One such was a Blackfoot one. They were a US ‘Native American’ rock group, most famous (I think?) for a track called Morning Dew (‘Mourning Jew!?’ says my inner Woody Allen!).

A bit weird, that one. Acquired primarily for the colourful design, at a time when being a rocker/hippy, of sorts, was my intent! I did like the group, or at least the few songs of theirs I’d heard. But in truth, a Thin Lizzy T-shirt, something I now have, but didn’t back then, would’ve been a better representation of my tastes and listening preferences!

I then went through a very long and, retrospectively, rather bleak ‘no logo/label’ phase. A combo of anti-advertising sentiment and a semi (pseudo?) political stance.

Nowadays I’ve relaxed back into a childish glee in using my chest as a communications platform. And I’ve slowly but surely been amassing a collection of T-shirts whose sole porpoise – aside from temperature regulation and public decency – is to let the world know a little about me, without I have to open my yap.

There are still a number of things the puritanical politico-moralist in me eschews; I don’t like brand labels, nor am I fan of slogans. Maybe it’s a legacy of the artist-illustrator-designer part of me? But I prefer T-shirts that are primarily visual. Sometimes, as in the Moog or Lizzy tees, this design is textual. But mostly I prefer pictures or ‘designs’.

Some of these purchases have been happier than others. I’m quite disappointed with how my Mr Natural Robert Crumb T-shirt is fading with each wash. And a couple of Herbie Hancock designs I got (from China, most likely?) are kind of great, design/image wise, but are made from hideous synthetic material (the sort often used for football shirts). I definitely prefer good ol’ plain cotton!

Pics: Herbie tees…

My most recent acquisition – whilst pictured at the top of this post, it hadn’t actually arrived when I started drafting it – is an Impulse record label logo job. I really wanted the maroon variant, with cream disc, etc, the above of the two pictured below. But that wasn’t available. So I went instead for the brown and orange variant below that. Still nice!

My preferred but unavailable choice.
The variant I eventually ordered.

This whole trend towards forlornly broadcasting one’s interests, perhaps esp’ so since I turned 50 (Jan’ this year… gulps!), might seem a bit pathetic. But I reckon I’m past caring!

Here’s a mini gallery of some of the designs I have. What does this little collection say about me, I wonder? I’d like to think it’s just a bit of harmless fun. But Teresa seems to be more of the ‘what are you wasting money on those for?’

MUSiC: The Nightfly Live, Donald Fagen, 2021

Well, this has been a long time coming, and no mistake. It’s nearly 40 years since the original Nightfly spun his tales from the foot of Mt Belzoni.

Sometimes people ask if there is such a thing as the perfect album. Well, for my money, The Nightfly is one such special and precious thing. So a live recording has some ridiculously high standards to live up to.

But as I sit listening to this, for the first time since it arrived, I am not disappointed. My first complete listen is in the car driving to work today. I’m now listening on headphones, at days’ end. Much better!Becker and Fagen were infamous studio perfectionists. It’s quite possibly thanks to the surviving legacy of such rigorously high standards that this stood any chance of success at all.

But then, of course, there is the material. With songs as well put together as these – each one is literally a perfect work of musical art – and a crack team of musicians, who are up to the job of paying such masterpieces their due respect, well… to alter a famous phrase, they were, perhaps, doomed to succeed!?

As a drummer, one of the first things that struck me was how busy and ‘pretty’ some of Keith Carlock’s playing is. In particular his left hand ghost or grace notes on the snare drum. I thought, for a brief moment, uh-oh, he’s overdoing it. Some may feel he is? But as I heard more and more, and finally the whole thing, I grew less inclined to nitpick.

The Dan were notably hard on drummers, ultimately creating Wendel, and for The Nightfly Wendel II, as a way to make drum parts more precise. Carlock is metronomically tight (how much post-production quantising is involved here, I don’t know?), and pretty much everything he adds manages not to get in the way of the feel of the tracks as we know and love them, but rather to add a bit of snap, crackle, pop and fizz to things. Impressive!

Then there’s the duality of structure vs improv’, and how to handle that. I think these redoubtable folk get the balance just right. The songs all sound faithful to the originals in most significant and structural respects, with just a little wiggle room for improv, and variety. There are occasional tweaks of vocal melody by Don, some ‘live show’ variant endings (e.g. Green Flower Street), and even a little stretching out here and there.

Fabulously it remains in that honey-pot sweet spot, the much vaunted ‘Goldilocks zone’, of neither too little nor too much, but just the right amount!

Listening a second time it’s all so incredibly clean, precise and beautifully mixed and balanced, one can’t help but wonder how much modern tech has helped play a hand in realising such a stunning outcome. But to be honest, I frankly couldn’t care less! Because sometimes the ends justify the means. And here is a case in point.

The recordings are from 2019, and are performed by The Steely Dan Band, as the post-Walter Becker group is known. recorded at the Orpheus (Boston, MA) and Beacon (NYC) Theatres. Personnel is as follows:

Donald Fagen, vocals, keys, melodica
Jim Beard, keys
Jon Herrington, Connor Kennedy, guitar
Freddie Washington, bass
Keith Carlock, drums
Michael Leonhart, trumpet
Walt Weiskopf, sax
Jim Pugh, trombone
Carolyn Leonhart, Catherine Russell, Jamie Leonhart, LaTanya Hall, b-vocals

All things considered, this is ace! An essential addition to the Dan/Fagen catalogue.

MUSiC: The Studio Albums of Jobim.

Jobim, 1972.

Tom Jobim, or, in full, Antônio Carlos Brasileiro de Almeida Jobim, was born in Rio de Janeiro, on January, 25th, 1927, and passed away December, 8th, 1994.

Widely acknowledged as Brazil’s greatest musical export, and one of the great composers of popular music of the twentieth century, his legacy is a corpus of beautiful and very distinctive music.

I first became dimly aware of him in my mid-teens, as I got into jazz. He seemed to be a ubiquitous name on the credits for the bossa and samba feel ‘standards’ many jazzers performed. It wasn’t long before I started seeking him out, as well as exploring his work on albums by Getz/Gilberto, etc.

This initial dalliance was further boosted by the friendship of Brennan Young, who I met at Goldsmiths, who loved Jobim and knew his oeuvre better than I did. And so my love for both Brazilian music generally, and Jobim in particular, grew.

I’ve been dabbling in writing and recording music of my own since my teens. And alongside that, as so many of us budding musos do, I’d seek to learn by studying the greats. And Jobim was a favourite, such that in my early twenties I pursued a project, under the working title Too Much Time, of recording an ‘album’ of jazz and bossa material, amongst which Jobim would account for about half to two-thirds of the material!

Now, sooo many years later, I still love Jobim’s music, and I still dabble with playing his stuff, albeit far less frequently nowadays. My most recent flirtation with having a crack at the maestro’s material has been to work out a guitar version of Remember, from the album Tide. I posted about that a little while back.

It struck me, whilst listening to Terra Brasilis recently, and, even more recently, Inedito, that I’d like to complete my collection of his major recordings, and survey them all with reviews. This is something I enjoy doing anyway, as it means revisiting all the music of someone I love and admire, and focussing my mind on transcribing my thoughts and feelings about their music.

So, starting some time soon, I’ll be posting reviews of the following Jobim studio albums:

The Composer of Desafinado Plays, ‘63
The Wonderful World of… , ‘65
[Love, Strings, & Jobim, ‘66]*
A Certain Mr Jobim, ‘67
Wave, ‘67
Tide, ‘70
Stone Flower, ‘70
Jobim, ‘72
Urubu, ‘76
Terra Brasilis, ‘80
Passarim, ‘87
Antonio Brasileiro, ‘95
Inedito, ‘95
Minha Alma Canta, ‘97

At the time of posting this I have all of the above except two of the most recent, or rather latest, ‘95s Antonio Brasileiro (I believe Sting guests on this one, dueting How Insensitive with Tom!), and ‘97s Minha Alma Canta.

Another album – pictured above – that has piqued my interest, is a much more recent release, charting his most youthful work, as composer and arranger to other Brazilian artists.

*Quite why this album continues to be attributed to Jobim is beyond me. His face is on the cover. His name is on the title. But it’s not a Jobim album! According to the wiki entry on it, it’s title in Brazil is or was Tom Jobim Apresenta, or Jobim Presents.

MEDiA/MiSC: Thoughts on the Christchurch shootings.

An infamous image: Australian Brenton Tarrant turns his cam on himself, during his murderous live-streamed rampage.

Yesterday, whilst reading online about the recent Christchurch mosque shootings, I watched two clips from the shooter’s infamous livestream footage.

The first was an approximately 5-6 minute segment in which he – Australian Brenton Tarrant – drives to the location of the first of his two attacks, a Mosque in Christchurch, NZ. This first video clip contained no graphic violence. I saw it on a British online mainstream news website (I forget which network it was).

Like so much POV media one can see these days – and there’s a lot of it online, from extreme sports stuff to the body-cams of cops or soldiers in shoot outs or combat – the initial impression is one of everyday banality; man in car drives around, talking to himself/his assumed audience.

Interestingly, what this live-stream ‘selfie’ video culture does, is make real a narcissistic fantasy we all share, to differing degrees, re the interest (or lack thereof) others might take in our ‘private’ lives.

Here, however, beyond the immediate everyday banality, there are a number of worrying things to be seen and heard: the ‘first person’ view reveals the driver is wearing combat gear; the passenger seat is strewn with firearms (the weapons themselves covered in weird white writing); something in one of the footwells flashes continuously[1]; the driver’s talking in a manner calculated to alarm anyone who isn’t a racist lunatic feeding on a diet of conspiracy theory bullshit; and a weirdly eclectic playlist of music – including the pop song Fire, a British military march and a Serbian song popularly known as ‘Remove Kebab’ – accompanies the whole bizarre scenario.

Less than a week after these shocking events, which occurred on March 15th, 2019, I spent about an hour or so reading a number of versions of much the same content, splashed across multiple online mainstream media outlets.

Frustrated at their uniformity and lack of detail, I decided to try digging a bit deeper. The result was that I found a longer version of Tarrant’s footage, which appeared to contain the entirety of his first attack. Most of the images in this post are screen grabs from this longer video.

Behind the wheel, some of Tarrant’s sizeable arsenal can be seen on the passenger seat.

The homicidal zealot exits his car, intent on killing. Note combat gloves.

One of the most horrifically iconic images from the livestream; approaching the Al Noor mosque, Tarrant prepares to open fire.

A chilling view, Tarrant hunts for further victims, in the mosque car park.

The location where I found what I think is the full livestream video (about 15 or so minutes?) – bestgore.com, an infamous shock site [2] that has subsequently closed – also featured a large number of user comments, mostly of an appalling sort that I won’t dignify with further attention.

What I will do, is say a few things about having seen this video, a video that most corporate sources, from governments to the media itself, quickly sought to suppress. More on this latter issue later.

One of the strangest and potentially alarming things, to my mind, and this probably reflects the saturation of media violence one is so inured to in Western culture, is that – and I guess this will surprise and upset some people who know me – I wasn’t really very shocked by the violence in itself. Why? Well, apart from the already mentioned jaded/overexposed aspect, it all resembles those very popular POV video game shoot-’em-ups.

I knew, or at least believed, that what I was witnessing was real [3]; appallingly so. But it doesn’t look any more real than countless scenes from films, or the action in many popular first-person shoot-em-up video games. Popular entertainment has revelled for so long now in much more overstated and gory violence, and to such an intense degree, that the real thing sometimes looks, ironically, ‘less than real’.

When there’s so much deliberately pornographic violence out there – from Tarantino movies to the endless quest for shock-horror baseness that underpins entire careers (Rob Zombie), and spawns such things as the Human Centipede franchise (leaching into popular culture to the extent that the latter is referenced in The Simpsons!) – in the mainstream media, the real thing, rather like a trip to Niagara Falls (which, unlike US style mass-shootings, is something I’ve experienced), winds up having less impact, even when it’s ‘real life’.

Much of the media I read before seeing the unexpurgated footage talked of ‘deeply disturbing’ footage of ‘men, women and children’ being shot. The quality of the video I saw was not HD, but blurred and grainy. And the helmet or head-cam POV makes it harder to see things clearly. Pretty much all the individuals I could make out, on first viewing, appeared to be adult males. [4]

There is one notably unfortunate woman, who crosses Tarrant’s path outside of the mosque. How he dispatches her is, perhaps somewhat strangely – given she is just the one person, whereas the men he kills are many – one of the more disturbing parts of the video. He shoots but doesn’t kill her. Leaving her wounded in the gutter, audibly crying out for help. A little later he appears to drive over her prone body. Is she dead yet? We don’t know. Clearly the callously sadistic Tarrant doesn’t care.

Tarrant pleads guilty to all charges via video-link to the court.

Aside from this lone female victim, one of the only moments that seemed less ‘abstract’ and video-game like is when someone inside the mosque makes a desperate attempt to run past Tarrant. In doing do their head/face pass very close to the headcam. This gives a momentary semblance of individuality and humanity to what otherwise appear as random undifferentiated bodies. It’s hard to see what happens, but I don’t think this brave but terrified individual escaped alive.

Amongst the tsunami of sickening verbal effluence posted in the comments at bestgore.com, one or two people posed a counter-view. I mention these comments again because I concur with one or two points some of the more sober commenters made about Tarrant: one concerns the obvious hypocrisy of a white male of Australian nationality perpetrating such a ‘race-war’ style crimes in another similarly colonised land, New Zealand.

Tarrant published a ‘manifesto’ (a cut n paste hodge-podge of racist right wing memes and conspiracy theories which I’ve read about, but not actually read) in which he seeks to explain/justify his actions. According to summaries of its contents it’s a familiar toxic mix of far-right white-supremacist nonsense (Great Replacement Theory type stuff). In it Tarrant describes muslims and immigrants as The Invaders.

Not having read his ‘manifesto’ I don’t know if he addresses the fact that, if you follow his own logic to it’s natural and inevitable conclusion, the Maoris of NZ and the Aborigines of Australia ought to be out en-masse, rampaging through the churches and shopping malls of those nations blowing the very real white colonial Invaders off ‘their land’.

So the first critical point has to do with Tarrant’s appallingly limited , indeed, moronic lack of understanding of human genetic diversity and movement around the globe.

The second has to do with his m.o. In the footage after the first massacre, he drives off at some speed, through the streets of Christchurch, presumably en route to his second killing spree, and says a few things.

One of the things he mentions is leaving unused ammo lying around. Another is, I think, not being as methodical and thorough in his slayings as he’d like (I think he may also mention something about the victims being mostly adult males).

In this latter reflection he refers to his totally one-sided murder-spree as a ‘firefight’. Clearly, in his poisoned mind, he’s in a battle. But, obviously, a firefight requires that your enemy is also armed, and firing back. A firing squad is not a firefight! Nor was Tarrant’s brutally one-sided butchery.

Mid-massacre, Tarrant returns to his car, to re-equip; this is what’s in his boot. The red fuel canisters were intended for use as petrol bombs.

Click here to view a video synopsis these events.

And this brings me to the core of what some of the less demented commenters on bestgore.com were concluding: Tarrant is clearly a dumb and deluded coward. Many men turn their frustrations on themselves and commit suicide. But some, like Tarrant, turn their anger cans frustration on the world.

From serial-killers to warmongers, such folk seek to displace the sense of threatened inadequacy they feel in themselves, by manufacturing a conspiracy they can go to war against.

And for Tarrant, as with disturbingly large numbers of extreme right-wing racists, this is a war that he seemingly happily feels can be waged by the armed against the unarmed. A ‘war’ that includes as legitimate targets not only the apparently ‘fair game’ of adult males, but also women and children.

His manifesto is where he allegedly sets out why this is so: Islam seeks to displace Christianity – I don’t know where his ‘facts’/figures come from (if he has any?), nor if they have any relation to reality or not – and ‘they’, the ‘Invaders’, aka Muslim immigrants, are outbreeding whites.

According to those who have read his bilious outpourings, Tarrant specifically justifies the killing of children in terms of a strictly utilitarian argument: kill as many as you can now, including children, so your own kids have less to kill further down the road. The cold logic of such ideas is, to me, as shocking as the acts it prepares the ‘believer’ for.

Whilst on the subject of belief, I once read a rather difficult book (difficult more for its stodgy academic style than it’s disturbing content) called Believe And Destroy, which aimed to examine how and why intelligent people willingly murdered fellow humans in pursuit of Hitler’s Nazi racial policies.

The author, a Spaniard named Ingrao, reasoned that Nazism worked like a religion, cultivating a sense of belonging, and also a sense of ‘faith’. Together these would prepare believers for the transition from ordinary law-abiding citizens into mass-murderers.

I’ve also read books claiming that the category or concept of ‘race’, as commonly understood, is a false one, in terms of ‘true’ scientific categories. Whatever the reality of this latter point may be, certainly Churchill put it very well when he described the alleged reasoning behind Nazism as ‘a perverted science.’

And here we get to the rub: for Tarrant his killing-spree is justified as being an attempt to actively coerce evolution in the direction of favouring his own supposed in-group, which he identifies in terms of race and religion, i.e. white Christian.

But, of the trio of Abrahamic religions born of Jewish decent, it’s only the founding branch that, as far as I know, holds to a specifically ethnic tribal/clan/blood view of belonging (God’s chosen people, etc.). Christianity and Islam are, in theory/by contrast, open to any and all (even Judaism has evolved to the extent that non-Jews can ‘convert’); as long as the faithful meet certain criteria – wide and varying, depending on the particular sect/brand of any given religion – then racial origin/identity is irrelevant.

Temel Atacocugus survived being shot nine times by Tarrant!

Sam Harris, in his book The End of Faith, makes a cogent and I feel very reasonable argument as to why people might reach a point of saying ‘this far but no further’ (or, more bluntly, ‘at this point we go to war’), over how one is free or otherwise to live. Harris’ vision pits a basically rational humanist one against the devout religious believer. And I share his basic views.

It’s kind of facile and, much worse, potentially very misleading, to observe that Harris and Tarrant share some aspects of thought process: an enemy is perceived, and a stand against that enemy is taken. Crucially and very significantly it’s where they part company, massively, in how those boundaries are negotiated, how differences might be resolved, and how such social visions are manifested in personal action, that shows the gulf between their outlooks.

Harris hopes that a secular culture can grow robust enough to collectively deal with such threats, whereas Tarrant seeks the ‘lone wolf’ path of the individual terrorist, of whatever race or creed.

What all these ideas begin to reveal are complex multifaceted problems: to those who admire Tarrant’s actions – a frighteningly larger number than many would wish to believe – he’s fighting fire with fire, and taking on a personal role/responsibility, something they believe liberals like Harris comfortably abnegate, instead delegating such action to others (law enforcement, the army, etc.).

And they argue further, that liberals and intellectuals and suchlike – known disparagingly these days as ‘woke’ or ‘snowflakes’ – are like the appeasers of Hitler, failing to see in the rise of fundamentalist Islam it’s real degree of intent and threat.

If you hear some of the talking heads interviewed in Richard Dawkins far too short and overly simplistic TV series The Root Of All Evil, you might well think, as I did at the time, uh-oh, there really is a danger of Islam seeking to overthrow ‘The West’. Certainly Islam, the adolescent to Christianity’s father figure, and Judaism’s grandfather figure, can oft-times appear the most juvenile and belligerent of the three branches of Abrahamic religious descent.

Scrawled all over spare ammo clips, white-supremacist Christian vs Muslim graffiti. Tarrant’s weapons and body armour were covered in such texts.

When I hear someone like the American ex-New Yorker convert to radical Islam (I don’t recall his name), in the aforementioned Root Of All Evil, ranting about ‘your women’ being ‘dressed as whores’, it is worrying. It ought to be merely sad, suggestive of, in his case, unresolved developmental and relationship issues.

It’s much the same problem we encounter in Tarrant: personal inadequacies are cloaked under a mantle of perceived societal threats. Strange fantasies evolve, allowing the individual to act aggressively in seeking to make the world conform to their damaged perceptions. Or, failing that, exacting revenge on a world they feel is letting them down.

It’s stating the obvious, I know; but tragedies like the Christchurch massacres just go to prove that, even if categories such as race or religious creed are perhaps redundant or fallacious, they remain potentially fraught and divisive ideas.

I often read things, for example I recently read Against Hate (Emcke), or before that the far superior Better Angels of Our Nature (Pinker), which appeal to reason as the way to resolve these problems. I hope fervently that this is how we proceed. But the pessimistic part of me does worry about where we’re currently headed…


NOTES:

NB: These include some stuff added much later than my original drafting and posting of this stuff, most of which was first written in the week after the events of 15th March, 2019.

If you’re interested in how the NZ government reacted to and dealt with the livestream footage that Tarrant put out, and which was viewed a lot online at the time – some of which I saw – and for some time after the events, read this.

It’s also worth knowing that people seeking to distribute the video in NZ have been jailed for their actions, under the legal codes to which the above link relates.

This still from Tarrant’s livestream video shows him firing through the front windscreen (whilst driving!).

[1] This turns out to be a strobe light weapon-fitting, used to disorientate ‘targets’, making them easier to dispatch.

[2] Hosted by Mark Marek, an Eastern European guy living in Canada, bestgore.com achieved worldwide notoriety when Luka Magnotta posted his home-made snuff movie ‘One lunatic, one ice-pick’ to the website.

[3] The bestgore.com posting of Tarrant’s livestream footage was littered with comments suggesting the video is faked. Most of these comments were, it was clear from the context, not worthy of the slightest attention. One or two, however, did make mention of a section in the film where Tarrant fire one of his guns through his own front windscreen, with – they allege – no discernible effect on the glass. On first viewing it did look that way. I must admit I did find that surprising and weird. But close study of the still above suggests one can see window damage, in the form of cracks. Tarrant also fires through his left passenger side window at one point, and the glass shatters, as you’d expect it to. The whole firing through the front windscreen bit makes me think that if he is indeed doing what he appears to be doing, then he presumably knew that he could do so. Me being a firearms dunce, having almost no experience with them, I would’ve assumed that one ought not fire in an enclosed space (ricochets, flying debris/shrapnel, etc.). Perhaps the weapon has such a high-velocity it can be fired through glass or whatever without significant deflection? And perhaps it’s simply that the video resolution is sufficiently poor it’s hard to see the holes the bullets make in the front windscreen? Anyway, as far as I’m aware, the overwhelming consensus is that Tarrant’s footage is, tragically, all too genuine.