Seb Palmer

After giving up on ever hearing this album, thinking it’d either got lost in transit or disappeared into a black hole in our home, Teresa recently found the CD. Still unopened, in its cardboard postal envelope.

So I’ve unwrapped it, and today, finally, played it. And, I’ll be dog-goned, it hasn’t disappointed. In looking for some info on it online, I found the following review. Normally I’d want to write my own. But this nails it:

‘A deeply pleasing sensation arises when terrific cover art not only fully delivers on the music, but also bears a distinct resemblance to it. Ryo Kawasaki’s 1976 jazz-funk album Juice is one such record.

Bright and refreshing like a piece of citrus, peel the skin back and you’ll find an electric fantasyland of traversing wires and circuits. Over the course of its seven tracks, the visually sci-fi-tinged world of Juice feels at once perfectly of its time, yet remains delightfully vital in 2022.’

Okay, so it’s 2024 now. But that’s as true now as it was in 2022. Ryo-san, and cohorts… we thank you!

The above is one of my favourite ever single frames by Hergé. It’s just perfect. It’s funny, dramatic, beautiful. I just love it!

Visual perfection. The clear line. Perfect compositional and colour balance. And a whole story and ethos, distilled into a single image. Breathtaking.

It’s funny, for me, now, thinking about Capt. Haddock’s penchant for whiskey. What part might his character have played, if any, in my own troubled relations with booze?

The funny drunkard is an ages old comedy trope. And a good and reliable one. But once one passes through the personal hell of severe alcoholism (or what passes for that in one’s own limited ways), it changes this perception.

Or is that Thomson and Thompson? There are subtle difference; moustache shape, exact form of buffoonery.

Snowy is a great foil for a Tintin. As is Haddock. And lots of other characters. Including Nestor, the unflappable manservant or valet, inherited from the unscrupulous Bird Brothers, along with Marlinspike Hall. ‘No, this is not Coutts, the Butcher’s!’ Ah, me. Simple pleasures.

We all know or occasionally meet folk like insurance salesman Jolyon Wagg. Boorishly assuming, in love with their own trite and repetitive anecdotes and jokes, and unaware when they’ve overstayed their welcome. And yet we tolerate them. Perhaps aware we may all have the potential to rub folk up the wrong way at times?

An intriguing character. Quite ambivalent in some respects. Whether running a South American country or moonlighting as a knife-throwing act, he’s manly, gruff, and not entirely of good moral character. A rogue and an adventurer. But… well, you know…

Hergé… what can one say? I can’t be bothered to even try here, right now, to be honest. I’m too exhausted. I’ll simply register my great admiration for and appreciation of his great body of work. A life well spent, no matter how tortured an artistic soul he might’ve had.

My interest in Colin Furze and his many activities, most especially his underground stuff, has lead me to the above video. So, I now know a very little about Radon. Which is more than I knew about it before. To learn more, you can read about it here.

Apparently (according to some sources) it’s the number one cause of death by lung cancer in non-smokers.

Thanks to this video I’ve also learned that there’s an online UK Radon map, where you can type in your postcode, and learn about Radon levels in your area.

It turns out that Colin Furze lives in a high radon concentration area. We, on the other hand (blue markers on maps), live in a very low concentration area. Phew!

And so it is that I learn of a new cause for concern. But also, mercifully, that it really need not concern us unduly. As we’re in a low risk area.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I’m not posting this because I particularly rate it. I just find it interesting, as a kind of nexus for multifarious issues, from poetry and art, to race and identity, nationalism and compassion, etc.

For those who don’t get it, the misquoted title is a reference to Count Arthur Strong, a contemporary comic icon who I really love.

As my uncle Terry occasionally notes/laments, things like blogs are often quite shallow. However, I make no apologies for the degrees to which I take my interests; sometimes I dive deeper, others I don’t.

On this occasion this is really just a place for me to note the existence of the famed poem, not explore its many tendrils of potential meanings or interpretations.

There are a few good visual sequences in this episode. The iron ore train at the beginning is pretty impressive.

Titled, with their usual schoolboy humour, Sand Job (Seamen, Massive Hunt, etc.), this is rumoured to be, poss’, the last Grand Tour ever. Sad. So here’s to enjoying it, while it lasts.

Jeremy Clarkson has said on this show, in a previous Special (?), that he’s ‘never as happy as I am in a desert’. This episode takes place in Mauretania.

The trio drive their stoopid cars through a segment of The Sahara. In a kind of low budget partial Paris Dakar rally. As usual, I don’t really care about the vehicles. The fun is watching these clowns goofing around in exotic locations.

These ‘special’ style episodes are the best aspect of The Grand Tour. Mostly ‘cause they’re mildly interesting and mildly exciting travelogues. A welcome dose of no expenses spared globetrotting fun, quite attractive for the penniless sofa-bound traveller by proxy.

This episode has Jezzer fretting over Ebola (remember the Ebola-drome test track?), land mines, African war-zones, and the lack of alcohol in Muslim countries, such as Mauretania.

Hammond is his usual chirpy self, May his normal slightly clever slightly curmudgeonly persona, and Jezzer’s the big n’ beefy naughty public schoolboy, who simply refuses to grow up.

Frankly, they face better challenges in other episodes, frankly. This isn’t the best of The Specials. But it’s ok. And for me, with this show, that’s alright. So, kind of business as usual?

As well as beaucoup (or encore?) le desert, they visit towns and cities: starting in Choum, they visit Chinguetti (famous for its ancient libraries, and busily being gobbled up by The Sahara), Nouakchott, and very nearly get to Dakar… ‘and on that bombshell’, almost too literally, it all ends.

As a wee footnote, here’s a piece in The Independent about Jezza. It came up when I was trying to find which Special it was in which he said words to the effect of ‘I’m never so happy as I am when I’m in a desert’.

Clarkson would almost certainly be utterly contemptuous of the ‘tofu eating knit your own muesli’ vibe in the linked piece. And it is pretty awful and pathetic in some respects.

But it also touches upon genuine problems, re his loutish bully-boy ignorance, and problematic position as public figure, and therefore, to use the current parlance, influencer.

In trying to ready some of my gear for sale, I’ve been taking it out of storage, or, in the case of the Squier Strat I’m starting with here, off the wall, to check stuff, prior to selling.

In this instance I’m checking that the Roland Cube 15W guitar amp works. And boy, it does. It’s way too loud for me, at this juncture of my life. I needed plenty of volume, back when I took amps out for drum lessons. To play backing tracks through, and get over the volume of kids thrashing knackered old drum sets.

But I think now, I’m more inclined towards 5W!

Anyway, the amp certainly works. Nor is it too noisy in terms of unwanted crackling and background hum. I’d prob’ only ever use the clean channel, were I using this as intended, as a guitar amp.

But now I’m no longer teaching, nor doing any music whatsoever – and given I have several similar amps, all not being used – and I’m in desperate straits financially, it’s time to move this on.

I dursn’t crank it up, to try the various distorted tones it gives. There’s a switch to switch between a ‘clean’ channel, and one with four positions: overdrive, distortion, metal, metal stack!

There are also three tone controls, an aux-in, and ‘recording out’. So far a small amp it’s got a lot of features, and a wide variety of possible sounds and applications.

But back to the Squier Strat for a mo’: in order to test the amp I had to put a guitar through it. I got down the Strat, which I don’t think I’ve touched in about 3-5 years! And it was still almost perfectly in tune.

Compare that with the Mahalo soprano ukulele I’ve been trying to sell… that tunes up ok. But it won’t hold its tuning anything like so long. Indeed, it requires near constant adjustment to keep it in tune.

Chalk n’ cheese, eh?

Whilst I’m prepping stuff for sale, I like to clean it, test it (if need be), and carry out any minor repairs that might be needed.

With the Roland Cube amp, it only needed cleaning and testing. All is hunky-dory. She’s ready for sale.

My little Fender Frontman 15G, by contrast, whilst looking fine, and sounding ok, has one issue I need to sort; a phono input that partly broken. So… that needs fixing.

I also have this battery powered Hiwatt busking amp. Pretty much never used. I had this fantasy that I might busk funky loops, on guitar and bass, and then play drums. Here I am taking off the knackered badge, with a view to ‘refreshing’ it.

Watching the above match, whilst attempting to chill and relax, after a long and arduous chat – almost an hour! – with Admiral, my car insurance people.

They rang me up, and informed me that they could now let me know what my claim settlement was going to be, and that, paid today, it’d come through in 3-5 working days.

That’s some time between this Friday and next Tuesday. Phew! That’s a real relief.

The amount is a few hundred less than I’d hoped for. But it’s near enough. And an immense relief, given how close to the knuckle things have got of late.

But back to the snooker. One of the commentators just said, in relation to a fluke that helped Ali Carter secure the previous frame: you could, in Trump’s shoes, react ‘’life’s not fair, the worlds against me!’ That may all be true. But you can fight back…’

Woah! Deep. And I really do mean that. Ok, it’s also trite and obvious. But it encapsulates a struggle I’m having, constantly. And one in which I’ve too often buckled and gone under. I need to find my inner indomitable warrior!

Perhaps Asterix and co, those indomitable Gauls, might serve as a starting point for me, inspiration wise? Mind, I don’t have any magic potion… maybe I could concoct a placebo, and take it as a ‘prayer-like’ ritual?

Three slices of brown bread, toasted under the grill. Mayo in place of butter. Grated cheese, ground black pepper. Two crusts: one with Yankee-doodle mustard, t’other with chilli-maple sauce. One plain. Flask o’ instant coffee…

The first thing I want to record here is the most gonzo dreams I think I’ve ever had. Not sure I actually can record them, as they were so intense, weird and far ranging.

I’ll just do a stream of consciousness dump, and hope I get down a fraction of what is fast fading from waking consciousness (poss/prob a good thing?):

Rats, lots of flesh-eating poss’ humano-hybrid rats… segueing into totally weird (fungi style?) morphing psychedelic segment, a la Cal Schenkel animation, in which tendrils from nostrils morph and liquify, into, well… ‘everything everywhere all at once’.

Alien nuclear weapons, already trained on/or just randomly arriving at Earth. Multifaceted buildings coated with cellular windows, and locomotive train like projections, all over.

A sequence where simultaneously we’re dealing with a baby that falls into a river, is washed away, then rescued, and poss’ then sold; human trafficking (of semi-vegetative folk); meltdown at an outraged trailer park/campsite/fairground owner: and various other weird strands that now escape me.

I’ll leave the dream-dump there for now. I might return to it, as and when more of the psychedelic kaleidoscopic content returns to consciousness? One over-riding keynote throughout many parts of it all was being submerged in apocalyptic levels of fear.

Alas, that last – whilst most of the rest seems like a weird ‘mental flushing’ – seems only too well connected with the panic-inducing reality I’m currently facing, of zero-income vs. continuous outgoings.

But I want to move on to a related issue, which is where the ‘slight problem’ in the title of this post comes in. And that’s my current preference for sleep, or unconsciousness, as a state of being. Even if I’m dreaming frightening weird shit. Preferable, that is, at least – see yesterday’s forced self-awakening episode – up to a point.

Again this connects all too readily with the less than pleasant realities of my current situation. I want to be asleep or unconscious, because that’s way preferable to being awake and conscious, with all that the latter entails.

It’s a form, I guess, of pseudo-suicide. I can’t be bothered, or I’m not bold (or crazy/stupid?) enough to enact a real physical self-termination. But if I just effectively switch myself off, maybe it’ll ultimately amount to much the same thing?

Like my dreams this morning. This is rolling along fairly scary lines, to be honest. Maybe some context will illuminate things a little? Maybe not? Who knows. I feel I’m past caring but I hope I’m wrong about that?

Anyway, I generally go to bed between about 7.30-8.30pm these days. I like to turn in early. Maybe do a bit on the blog. And definitely – as long as I’m not too tired to do even this – to read.

Reading is one pleasurable activity I can still regularly engage in. Currently I’m nearing the end of volume three of Shelby Foote’s The Civil War. I’m slightly dreading reaching the end, partly ‘cause I’m not sure what to read next.

Last night – and this is happening increasingly frequently at the moment – I woke around 3am. Most often, as indeed with last night, I will simply try and get back to sleep. Often this takes a good while. Normally I’ll have rain sounds playing, in the YT app, to help me slumber.

I might do something on my phone – but I try not to (screen time can be over-stimulating) – or I may read. Very occasionally I’ll get up and do stuff. The main aim is to get back to sleep. And once there, stay there.

I’m acutely and painfully aware that really I need to be up and active, to address my current problems. But I’m simultaneously acutely and painfully aware that I really don’t want to be.

I certainly need to expand my affirmation cue-card set, which is currently predominantly about trying to relax and not super-stress, to include much more active doing stuff type admonitions.

But I desperately need to somehow train or cajole my kind into wanting to be awake/conscious and dealing with, aka solving, my current livelihood (and other) conundrums.

My attempts to sell stuff, mostly musical instruments at this point, feel like pissing into a force 10 gale, so far. I suppose I need to expand these efforts, and add a whole load of other shit: books and models, for example.

But again, it all feels like too little and too late. So why even bother?

WHY???

To avert utter catastrophe… you dumbass nincompoop!

I think I’d better call Samaritans, immediately. And the doc’s shortly thereafter. It’s clear I need some kind of psychological intervention type help.

Those two things done, I must get up, get dressed, and get on. At the very least to make a determined effort to sell as much stuff as quickly as poss’. But also to find some other ways I might get some money in. Like some kind of ‘without wheels’ work, starting ASAP.

Despite or because of the ‘heaviness’ of this post, I feel the levity of Muppet-land as a source for accompanying imagery is apt.

My mentions of Tom Waits in a recent post lead me to this interesting article, which is an interview with Rickie Lee Jones, about her (then fresh out, in ‘21) autobiography.