Adaptacion al comic por Peter Kuper del relato de Franz Kafka publicado en 1915.

Cuando Gregor Samsa despertó una mañana tras un sueño intranquilo se descubrió transformado… No era un sueño.

Descarga La Metamorfosis

Eu vi três shows do OTTO.

Deles não tenho foto.

De fato, o que deles ficou não foram as imagens…

OTTO é paulada no labirinto.

Não sei se vocês já ouviram o novo disco do cara.

Pois deveriam!

CERTA MANHÃ ACORDEI DE SONHOS INTRANQUILOS, novo disco, ainda inédito no Brasil, mas rolando solto na web e nos EUA, é primoroso!

O quarto álbum do pernambucano co-fundador do mangue beat, tem clima de quarto… quarto de ex-casal, quarto de hotel…

O nome é uma referência à KAFKA, em A METAMORFOSE, referencia que este blogue não poderia deixar de apreciar: “Certa manhã Gregor Samsa acordou de sonhos intranquilos”.

Belíssimas canções de amor com toda breguice harmônica que elas tem direito.

Beleza bruta!

São lindos os teclados de bordel, são de chorar as guitarras de CATATAU, do Cidadão Instigado.

Feliz é OTTO na escolha do seu repertório de interprete. Pérolas da MPB como “Lágrimas Negras” de JORGE MAUTNER, em parceria com o NELSON JACOBINA e “Naquela Mesa”, de SÉRGIO BITTENCOURT, filho de JACOB BITTENCOURT, o genial JACOB DO BANDOLIM, imortalizada na voz de NELSON GONÇALVES.

LÁGRIMAS NEGRAS

Jorge Mautner / Nelson Jacobina

Na frente do cortejo
O meu beijo
Forte como o aço
Meu abraço
São poços de petróleo
A luz negra dos teus olhos
Lágrimas negras saem, caem, doem
Lágrimas negras saem,caem, doem
Por entre flores e estrelas
Você usa uma delas como brinco
Pendurado na orelha
Astronauta da saudade
Com a boca toda vermelha
Lágrimas negras saem, caem, doem
São como pedras de moinho que moem
Roem, moem
E você, baby
Vai, vem,vai
E você baby
Vem, vai, vem
Belezas são coisas acesas por dentro
Tristezas são belezas apagadas
Pelo sofrimento
Belezas são coisas acesas por dentro
Tristezas são belezas apagadas
Pelo sofrimento
Lágrimas negras saem, caem, doem
Lágrimas negras saem, caem, doem

NAQUELA MESA (1970)

Sérgio Bittencourt

Naquela mesa ele sentava sempre
e me dizia sempre o que é viver melhor

Naquela mesa ele contava histórias
que hoje na memória eu guardo e sei de cor

Naquela mesa ele juntava gente
e contava contente o que fez de manhã
e nos seus olhos era tanto brilho
que mais que seu filho
eu fiquei seu fã

Eu não sabia que doía tanto
uma mesa num canto, uma casa e um jardim

Se eu soubesse o quanto dói a vida
essa dor tão doída, não doía assim

Agora resta uma mesa na sala
e hoje ninguém mais fala do seu bandolim
Naquela mesa tá faltando ele
e a saudade dele tá doendo em mim…

Darei de ouvir para vocês a canção “6 minutos”, uma mescla do romantismo na letra com guitarras endiabradas de contrapeso. Como eu gosto desta guitarra…

No Uno só rola isso ultimamente…

05 6 Minutos by cgsalla

Volta para ele Negrini! Ou então, anote aí o meu e-mail…

Olayın ilk iki haftası sona erdiğinde sadece bizim anlatımızın kahramanı olan Tekvin’in yaşadığı ülkede yayımlanan gazete sayısı ikiye katlanmış, hâlihazırda yayımlanmakta olan gazetelerin en kötüsünün tirajında bile yüzde yüzlük bir artış gözlenmişti. Bu arada belirtmeliyiz ki tüm bunlar olurken Tekvin en kötüsünün tirajında bile yüzde yüzlük bir artış gözlemlenen işte bu gazetelerin birinde kültür-sanat sayfalarını hazırlıyor ve aynı gazetenin edebiyat ekine denemeler, öyküler, kitap eleştirileri, zaman zamansa şiirler yazıyordu. Tekvin yaşadığı hayattan bıkıp usanmış olmasına rağmen bunu hiç kimseye çaktırmıyor, kendini kandırıyor ve hatta yazılarının daha etkili olacağı bir dünya düşlüyor bile olabilirdi bir süreden beridir. Her ne hikmetse işte şimdi, televizyon denilen illet aletin ortadan kalkmasıyla, daha doğrusu madden var olmaya devam etmesine rağmen bu varlığın işlevsellikten arındırılmış olması sebebiyle manadan yoksun kalması, yazılı kültürün tekrar öne çıkmasına ve pek çok yazarın bir zamanlar ulaşılmaz gibi görünen ideallerine yaklaşmasına vesile olmuştur. Söylemeye bile gerek yok ama işte Tekvin de yazarlık hayatında yeni bir döneme giren bu insanlardan biriydi. Kendisi nasıl olsa gazetedeki yerini yıllar süren çabalar sonucu sağlamlaştırabilmiş ve artık gazetedeki varlığı yerinden edilmesi namümkün bir hâl almıştı. Dünyadaki tüm televizyon ekranlarının beyaza bürünmesiyle ise yazılı basın insanların tek haber ve reklam kaynağı haline gelmiş ve bu da yazının gerek maddi, gerekse de manevi değerini arttırmıştı. O kadar ki, artık Tekvin’in garsonluktan tercümanlığa çeşit çeşit ek işlerde çalışması gerekmeyecek, hep ve sadece kendi yazı işiyle uğraşmak yetecekti hayatını idame etmeye. Tekvin ilk kitabını işte böyle bir atmosferde yayınladı. Kitap televizyonsuz bir dünyada geçiyor ve Panoptik Kitap adını taşıyordu.

Her neyse, Tekvin’in kitabını şimdilik bir tarafa bırakıp karakterine dönecek olursak diyebiliriz ki kendisi kitapçıları gezmeyi seven, haftanın altı-yedi gününü, her günün üç-dört saatini kitapçılarda kitaplara sadece bakmakla kalmayıp onları okuyarak da geçiren, vasat bir üniversitenin felsefe bölümünden zar zor mezun olmuş ve büyüklerine saygıda kusur etmiyor görünse de içten içe onlara lânet okuyan, otuz yaşında bir insandır. Artık bir filozof olamayacağını anlamış, elini eteğini akademik dünyadan çekerek kendini edebiyata, sinemaya, televizyonda haber ve tartışma programları seyretmeye vurmuştur. Lâkin sadece yalnız ve uykusuz geçen gecelerde edebi işlerle uğraşmakla, film izlemekle ve haberleri seyretmekle kalmamaktadır Tekvin. Gündüzleri de denemeler, öyküler, anlatılar, ve hatta siyasi yazılar bile yazmaktadır irili ufaklı dergi ve gazetelere. Belirli bir duruşu olmadığı için rüzgârın estiği yöne göre şekillendirmektedir o da yazılarının yönünü. Mesela o gün rüzgâr batıya doğru esiyorsa Tekvin batılı düşünürlere meylettiği gözlenen yazılar yazmakta, rüzgâr doğuya doğru eserse ise doğu felsefesini öne çıkaran yazılarını neşretmeyi uygun bulmaktadır. Tekvin’in bu tavrı şimdi bize garip ve etiğe aykırı gelebilir, ancak o günün koşullarında Tekvin için tek çıkış yolu olarak beliren yegâne yoldur düşüncelerinin yönünü rüzgâra göre ayarlamak ve buna bağlı olarak da rüzgâr ne yönden esiyorsa o yönde yazılar yazmak. İşte aşağı yukarı böyle bir karakter olan Tekvin o ekransız ve görsel imgesiz, can sıkıcı hayatla başa çıkabilmek için Defter-i Tekvin adında bir kitap yazmaya başlamış, lâkin içindeki boşluk yazdıkça daha da büyüyünce bu devasa boşluğa karşı bir savunma mekanziması olarak Spinoza’nın ruhunu yaratmıştır. Evet, işte en sonunda belli oldu ki o az önce bahis konusu yaptığımız mahlûkat Spinoza’nın hayaleti değil, ruhuydu, ruhudur. Söz konusu ruhu yaratırken Tekvin’in aklındaki düşünce Spinoza’nın yaşadığı zamanlarda ne televizyonun ne de diğer ekran mekanizmalarının mevcut oluşuydu denebilir sanırız. İşte bu gerçekten hareketle Spinoza’dan ekransız dünyada yaşamanın zorluklarıyla mücadelede kullanılacak teknikler öğrenebileceği düşüncesiyledir ki Tekvin söz konusu ruhu yaratmıştır. Belli ki Panoptik Kitap’la ortaya son derece ilginç bir fikir atmıştır Tekvin ve şimdi de işte yarattığı bu hapishaneden çıkmak için kullanılacak yolu bulmak için tekrar Panoptik Kitap’a girmesi gerektiğini düşünmektedir, çünkü bilmektedir ki Defter-i Tekvin ancak Panoptik Kitap içerisinden yazılabilir ve Spinoza’nın teorileri bu bağlamda son derece endikedir. Tekvin o gece aklındaki işte bu düşüncelerle son derece tedirgin edici düşler görmek üzere uykuya dalar. Tekvin’in düşler âleminde olmasından istifade ederek bizler de tüm televizyon ekranlarının beyaza büründüğüyle ilgili haberin gazete manşetlerinden çeşitli şekillerde fışkırdığı güne dönüp anlatmayı ihmâl ettiğimiz birkaç önemli olayı aktaralım müsaadenizle.

Tekvin elbette ki o lânetli Mayıs ayının son gününde saatler tam sıfırı gösterdiği sırada yaşanan o talihsiz olayın sabahında, yani 1 Haziran’da, gözlerini tıpkı Kafka’nın Gregor Samsa’sı gibi tedirgin edici düşlerden bile daha tedirgin edici gerçeklere açmış olduğunu bilmiyordu. O her zaman olduğu gibi gene son derece tekdüze ve gereksiz bir güne uyandığını sanıyor ve bu sanrıyla da gözlerini ovuşturup son bir kez esniyor, geriniyordu yatağından kalkarken ve şunu düşünmekten kendini alamıyordu bunu yaparken: “Şu sıralar kafayı hayatın anlamı, varlığın sebebi, yokluğun varlığı gibi, felsefenin kendini ezelden beridir üzerinde düşünmeye vakfettiği ve/fakat sorduğu sorulara aradığı yanıtları bulamayınca buz eden yerine kaldırmaya meylettiği sorunlara takmış olmamın sebebi hakkındadır herhalde bu rüya. Kendimi bu rüyanın hangi konuda olduğunu kendimle paylaşmaya zorunlu hissediyorum. Böyle hissediyorum işte kendimi çünkü alkol tanrıya olan inancımı sarstığından beridir kendimde değilim. İnsanın tanrıyı neden yarattığını artık hepimiz biliyoruz ancak bunu hatırlatmakta zarar değil, bilâkis fayda vardır. İnsan tanrıyı yarattı çünkü insan kendini evrende pek yalnız hissediyordu. Öyle bir güç gerekliydi ki insana, insan kendi dışında ve kendinden daha güçlü ve anlamlı bir bütünlüğün parçası olarak kendini emniyette, yaşamını anlamlı hissetsindi.”

Son derece sakin bir insan olan Tekvin işte aklındaki bu düşüncelerle saate bakar. Saatin dokuzu çeyrek geçtiğini görerek derhal dişlerini fırçalamak üzere tuvalete gitmesi gerektiğini idrak eder ve bu yönde eyleme girişir. Girişir girişmesine ama tam olarak nedir Tekvin’i derhal bu yönde hareket etmeye iten şey? O şey şu olabilir meselâ: Kendisi bir gazetede çalışmaktadır ve işe geç kalmış olmasa bile kalacağı su götürmez bir gerçek halindedir. Evden çıkmak için gerekenleri yerine getirdikten sonra hayrete mahâl vermeyecek şekilde evden çıkar. Çıkar çıkmasına evden ama çıkışıyla eve girişi bir olur. Bunun sebebi ise obsesif kompülsif diye tabir edilegelmiş ruhi ve sinirsel bir hastalıktan muzdarip olmasıdır. Hastalığı gereği eve geri giren Tekvin sifonu çekmiş olup olmadığına, ışıkların hepsini kapamış mı ona falan bakar, evin her yerinde kontroller yapar. Gayesi evden çıkarken içini rahat kılmak, gözünün arkada kalmamasını sağlamaktır. Okuyucuyu germenin gereği ise hiç yoktur, zira unutulmamalıdır ki anlatımız bir gerilim anlatısı değil, bilâkis türler arası bir etkileşimin neticesinde ortaya çıkmakta olan, kategorize edilemeyecek nitelikte bir hadisenin edebi form kazanmasından ibarettir. Belli ki bu türde bir anlatı daha evvel hiç yazılmamıştır, zira bu anlatının ait olabileceği bir anlatı türü zaten namevcuttur.

Her neyse, Tekvin evden en nihayet çıkar, ama çıkarken duraksar ve evde her şeyi kontrol edip etmediğini düşünür. Tüm kontrolleri yapıp evdeki herşeyi kontrol altında aldığına kanaat getiren Tekvin rahat bir nefes alır ve apartmandan dışarıya çıkmak yolunda emin adımlarla merdivenlerden aşağıya inmeye meyleder. Eder etmesine Tekvin merdivenlerden aşağıya inmeye meyil ama bir dakikadır, ya hafızası kendini yanıltmakta ise ve aslında evde kontrol altına alınmamış bir şey kalmışsadır? Ya ev kendisinin yokluğundan istifade ederek bir çılgınlık yaparsadır? İşte bunlar Tekvin’in şuurunu istila etmekte ve tarifi imkânsız ıstırapların ruhunda fink atmasına sebebiyet vermekte olan düşüncelerden sadece bazılarıdır.

Tekvin işe yeterince geç kaldığının idrakiyle, kafasından geçmekte ve hiç şüphesiz hastalığının ürünü olan yersiz düşünceleri yenmeyi başararak adımlarını sıklaştırır. Tanrıya şükürler olsundur ki Tekvin’in evi çalıştığı gazeteye pek yakındır. Zaten Tekvin de bu evi çalıştığı gazeteye olan yakınlığından ötürü kiralamıştır.  Olaysız bir yürüyüşten sonra gazeteye varır ve herşeyin güllük hatta gülistanlık olduğunu görerek salakça bir sevince boğulur. Boğulur boğulmasına salakça bir sevince ama biz biliyoruzdur ki bu boğuluş pek uzun sürmeyecek, Tekvin çok kısa bir süre sonra gerçeği, yani dünyadaki tüm televizyonların bir önceki gece yarısı hep beraber ne idüğü belirsiz bir beyazlık göstermeye başladığını öğrenecektir. İş arkadaşlarından birinin gazeteyi Tekvin’in önüne attığı o dramatik sahne bu bağlamda çarpıcı olabilir meselâ.

Neşe içerisinde herkese günaydın dedikten sonra görev yerini alan Tekvin görevi icabı iş arkadaşlarına saygıda ve sevgide kusur etmez. Etmez etmesine ama nereden bilsindir zavallı Tekvin ki iş arkadaşlarının artık Tekvin’in televizyonların beyazlıktan başka bir şey göstermekten vaz geçtiğinden bihaber dünyasında yaşamadığını. Arkadaşlarından biri o günün, yani o mübarek 1 Haziran tarihinin gazetesini Tekvin’in yazı masasına fırlatır ve haberleri duydun mu, diye sorar. Kulakları bu sözleri duymaktayken gözleri de gazetenin dev puntolu manşetine ilişen Tekvin hayretler içerisinde, olamaz, bu mümkün değil, diye şaşkınlığını dile getirir. Tekvin gazeteyi eline alır ve manşeti okur: “Görüntü Nereye Gitti?” Manşet görüntünün içinde bulunulan zaman ve mekândaki yok oluşunun, aynı görüntünün bir başka zaman ve mekânda yeniden var olmasını gerektireceğini vurguluyor olması bakımından ilginç gelmiştir Tekvin’e. Editörün manşetlerde soru işareti gerektiren ifadeler kullanmaktan şiddele kaçınmaya meyilli olduğu da tecrübeyle sabitken, elbette ki manşetteki durumun gerçekten de kaygı verici bir boyut arz ettiği su götürmez bir gerçek halini alacaktır Tekvin için. Zira Tekvin ilk kitabı Panoptik Kitap’ı henüz yayınlamamış olmakla beraber, fikir almak maksadıyla gazetenin editörüne manuskriptin bir nüshasını bizzat elden vermiş bulunuyordu söz konusu manşetin atıldığı günden tam bir hafta önce. Tekvin yüzünde endişe ve sevinç ifadelerini aynı anda barındırmaktadır ve bunun sebebi henüz yayınlanmamış olmakla birlikte bir hafta önce tamamaldığı romanı Panoptik Kitap’ta da tıpkı gazetede yazan haberde olduğu gibi dünyadaki tüm televizyon ekranlarının beyazlığa mahkûm oluşu ve akabinde gelişen düşündürücü, hatta dehşet verici olayların anlatılıyor olmasıydı, olmasıdır.

Hemen belirtelim, Tekvin’in kitabına göre beyazlaşan şimdilik sadece televizyon ekranlarıydı.  Sinema, video, DVD gibi görsel teknolojilerde henüz en ufak bir bozulma gözlenmiyordu. Belli ki televizyonların beyazlaşmasına sebep olan bilinmez kuvvet, sinema, video, dvd gibi aletlerin de hep ve sadece uçsuz bucaksız bir beyazlık ve bitmek bilmez fakat duyulması neredeyse imkânsız olmasına rağmen insan olana rahatsızlık veren, onu geren, onda teriginlik ve daha başka olumsuz duygulanımlar yaratan bir hiss sesi vermesini sağlamaktan şiddetle kaçınmıştı. Belki de bilinmez kuvvet bunu kurgumuza duyduğu derin bağlılıktan ötürü yapmıştı. Belki de bilinmez kuvvet sinema, DVD, video gibi görsel imge sağlayıcılarının kurgumuz açısından ne denli gerekli olduğunu bildiği için söz konusu görüntü sağlama yöntemlerini kendi hallerine bırakmıştı. Peki ama bilinmez kuvvet neden ve nasıl başarmıştı bunu? Yapması gereken ve nitekim yaptığı şey çok basitti. Bilinmez kuvvet işin kökenine inip doğrudan ekran mekanizmasını işlevinden arındırma yoluna gitmek yerine neden sadece televizyon ekranlarını beyazlığa mahkûm etmiş olduğunun ve bunu nasıl yaptığının içinde bulunulan bu erken aşamada okuyucuyu ilgilendirmediğini,  zira aşamanın henüz bu bilginin paylaşılması için gereğinden erken olduğunu, söz konusu bilgi okuyucuyla paylaşıldığı takdirde kurgunun merak uyandırıcı yanının ortadan kalkacağını bildiği için olsa gerek, kurgunun geleceği açısından olmasa bile en azından şimdisi açısından anlatının merak etmeyi seven okuyucuların gözünden düşmesine gerek aklen, gerekse de gönlen razı olmadığından – vicdanı buna el vermedeğinden de diyebiliriz -  tüm ekranları beyazlatmak yerine sadece televizyon yayını yapan televizyon ekranlarını beyaz kılmayı seçmiştir. Elbette ki bunun meyvelerini çok geçmeden toplayan okumakta olduğun bu satırların yazarı veya yazarları olacaktır. Herneyse, demek ki şimdilik dünyadaki tüm televizyonlar dışındaki hiçbir görsel imge sağlayıcısı işlevinden arındırılmamıştır. İnsanlar DVD’lerini takıyor ve görüntü almakta en ufak bir sıkıntı yaşamıyorlardır, çünkü bilinmez bir kuvvet tüm DVD’lerin hep ve sadece beyazlık göstermesini mümkün kılmamıştır. Böylece de işte doğrudan ekran mekanizmasının bozguna uğratıldığı yönündeki iddialar şimdilik anlamsızlığa mahkûm kılınmış olur. İnsanlar çok geçmeden bu tartışmanın yersiz ve de gereksiz olduğuna kanaat getirip tekrar sorunun kaynağının ne olduğu sorusuna yönelirler. Neyse ki konunun bir polemik içerisinde spiraller çizerek insanlığı kısır bir döngüye hapsetmesinin önüne aklı başında bir yazarın yaşam ve ölüm, varlık ve yokluk, yaratıcılık ve yıkıcılık arasındaki son derece kompleks ilişkilere hem en fenni, hem de en edebi şekilde açıklık getiren ilk kitabı geçecektir, ki bu yazar Tekvin, bu kitapsa Panoptik Kitap’tır sevgili okuyucularımız. Panoptik Kitap’ın içi ise tam bir lâbirent gibidir ve insanın kendini bu kitapta kaybetmesi kuvvetle muhtemel olmakla beraber, söz konusu kayboluş insanın kendini yeniden bulabilmesi için gerekli bir koşuldur, çünkü insan kendini kitapta kaybetmekle kendi içinde kaybetmiş olur aslında. Bunu sebebi ise kitabın insanın içindekinin dünyamıza yansımasıyla zuhur edegelmesidir. Yani insan kitabı okurken, kitap da insanı okur denebilir. Bu ikisi okuşur ve yazışır belli ki… Kitapta geçen olaylar okuyucunun geçmişine göre şekillenir, böylece de okuyucu kitabın kendi geçmişi ve hatta şimdisi ile derin bir ilişki içerisinde olduğuna kanaat getirir. Oysa kitap kendi kendisinden başka kimseyi anlatmıyordur aslında. Elindeki bu kitap ise işte o Panoptik Kitap hakkında, aynı anda her nasılsa hem çok geç hem de çok erken olacak şekilde, yani yenilgiye mahkûmiyeti yazgısı belleyen ve/fakat her yenilginin de yeni bir başlangıca rahimlik ettiğini akılda tutarak kaleme alınmış bir başka kitaptan başka bir şey değildir belki de. Ama belki de öyle bile değildir işte. Belki de elindeki bu kitap Panoptik Kitap’tan çıkış yolunu gösteren, Defter-i Tekvin adında başka bir kitaptır. Belki de aslında önsöz olan Panoptik Kitap’tır, bu kitapsa sonsözdür, tabii eğer o tür sözler – yani ön ve son diye tabir edilebilecek cinsten olan sözler – gerçekten de varsa. Görüldüğü üzere herkes ve hiç kimse gibi biz de tam olarak bilemiyoruz hakikati. Acaba bunun sebebi hakikatin bilinmesi namümkün bir hiçlikten ibaret olması olabilir mi? Eminiz ki tüm bunlar anlatımız ilerledikçe kesinlik kazanacak ve bizler de bu vesileyle hep birlikte öğreneceğizdir her şeyi, ey üstündeki lâneti yazgısı belleyen sabırsız okur!

(c) Cengiz Erdem, FMHS, 2009.

A ilha continua a de sempre. Parece que há uma guerra entre um escritor comunista e a Igreja, veja-se o ambiente retro da estação. Os católicos e os comunistas, justamente os dois tipos de cristãos que menos lêem a Bíblia, são, naturalmente, os que mais ferozmente a debatem.

Outro bom cristão, o Sr. Joaquim Leitão realizador, fez um filme todo passado na Cova da Moura (menos a montagem e pós-produção). Dizia na têvê o que os jornalistas da têvê sempre gostaram de dizer e agora lhe ouviram: «A maior parte das pessoas daqui [a Cova onde estava] têm uma vida perfeitamente normal, como a nossa».

Curioso é pensar quem serão os «nós» da frase que terão essa forma de vida comum, por oposto, supõe-se, aos «eles».

Uma oposição que não existia no filme feito há dez anos, chamado “Outros Bairros“, de Kiluanje Liberdade, Inês Gonçalves e Vasco Pimentel (Outros Bairros, 1999, 52’. Produção: Filmes do Tejo).

O Dodó não pertence a nenhum «nós».

(E uma vida perfeitamente normal era a vida que Gregor Samsa tinha antes de acordar transformado num escaravelho, mas que, singularmente, conseguiu recuperar, já como escaravelho, mediante a acomodação de todos os seus hábitos.)

Curiosa, também, do ponto de vista do drama (e dos mal-entendidos do comunismo e do cristianismo que assolam a ilha) a convicção do Sr. J. Leitão de que pode encontrar mais vida e conflito na Cova da Moura, por contraste com os sítios onde «nós» vivemos.

Exactamente o mesmo tipo de convicção que orientou o neo-realismo, que foi buscar vida autêntica onde parecia que ela mais estava, longe das cidades e dos enclausuramentos do sector terciário.

Como se na Cova da Moura não houvesse o que há nos outros sítios (e havia no antigo Alentejo rural, em todos os estratos, como se viu em 76): alienação e rotina, demagogia, bancários sem escrúpulos e agiotas, especuladores de todo o tipo, hipócritas, xenófobos, «famosos» e «alta-sociedade», funcionários corruptos, pseudo-artistas sobrevalorizados e, até, maus contadores das histórias dos outros.

On the plane from Madison, I had a bout of strange logic. I was napping when the engine seemed to shut off. The racket that means things are exploding and thrusting and keeping the big bird airborne stopped, and I wondered if something was wrong. But when I opened my eyes, I saw pure, high-altitude sun streaming through the windows, and immediately concluded that nothing was wrong, because it was sunny. Then I went back to sleep. On sunny days it seems that nothing bad could happen, but then again murder rates go up in the summer. I wonder if all those murders happen in low-ceilinged ranch houses with thick brown curtains.

But the world I prefer is greyish. I have heard stories about San Diego, and I wonder how the people there don’t feel like ants losing to a magnifying glass. There are San Diegos of the mind, too, where the crinkles are smoothed away, the grey matter is bleached and stiff like cotton on a clothesline, and all the beds have been checked for monsters. That makes me squint. When I listen to Pink Moon I cannot wait for the moment when night she falls, all around, like a skirt we can hide underneath. I think Nick Drake felt the same, how naturally he says, I am the parasite that hangs from your skirt. People like us would feel more at home in Gregor Samsa’s new skin: it wouldn’t be absurdism at all.

Un joven viajante de comercio despierta una mañana luego de un sueño intranquilo convertido en un enorme insecto. Gregor Samsa es el protagonista de esta transformación monstruosa inventada por Franz Kafka y considerada una novela fundamental de la literatura del siglo XX. El artista argentino Luis Scafati realizó una versión ilustrada de esta obra que Clarín digital presentó de manera exclusiva en Internet. Una selección de veintidós dibujos de los cincuenta que comprenden la obra completa, acompañadas de fragmentos de textos de la obra de Kafka integran la muestra.

La Metamorfosis. Versión Ilustrada.

“Y Gregor sentía que su herida de la espalda volvía a doler, cuando la madre y la hermana regresaban…”

En Algún día: Franz Kafka.

episode 1. Little girl enjoys killing little bugs.

episode 2. An army of little bugs attacks and kills little girl.

episode 3. Little girl wakes up, hears a welcoming voice and thinks all has been but a bad dream.

episode 4. Little girl realizes she has died and gone to the final bug judgement.

episode 5. Little girl toils in hell for bugs.

episode 6. Little girl toils in hell for the same bugs.

episode 7. Little girl toils in hell for more bugs and other closely related species.

episode 8. Hell bursts open. Little girls wakes up in a hospital, after an induced coma.

episode 9. Little girl discovers she had been attacked by an army of little bugs and severely hurt.

episode 10. Little girl leaves hospital.

episode 11. Little girl has a sex-change operation.

episode 12. Little girl changes name to Gregor Samsa.

to be continued.

This was one of my university pieces for the year. I got an HD.

—

In the 1968 film “The Producers” Zero Mostel’s character Max Bialystock is searching for the worst play. From one he reads the opening line: “Gregor Samsa awoke one morning to discover that he had been transformed into a giant cockroach.” He thinks for a moment, then says: “Nah, it’s too good.”

But he was wrong: it wasn’t a giant cockroach. The German word that Kafka uses in his short story “The Metamorphosis” was “ungeziefer”, but this doesn’t translate well into English, meaning “an unclean animal not suited for sacrifice.” Colloquially “ungeziefer” translates to mean “bug”, but this doesn’t have the full effect of disgust that Kafka envisioned. Most Enlgish translations have settled on the word “vermin”, such as Stanley Corngold’s, which is the translation this essay will refer to. (Please note that page numbers for “Metamorphosis” as are it appears in The Norton Critical Edition.)

So what is Gregor?

The cleaning maid who visits Gregor refers to him as a dung beetle (33), but that’s probably a pet name. Kafka would refer to Gregor as an insect, but insisted it wasn’t a cockroach (Binder, 173). Nabokov went further, providing drawings of what design of beetle Gregor becomes, but did finalise his argument simply: “He is merely a big beetle.” (Nabokov, 260)

So what is Gregor?

Following Kafka’s descriptive clues he’s a strange conglomerate. Gregor has a flexible neck, able to move his head quite freely (6), unlike common beetles. He also has, at the beginning of the story anyway, working vocal chords (5), but these disappear in time – afterwards he can only hiss (36). While he has a hard armour plated back (3), his father is still able to lodge an apple into his back’s soft skin (29). His strong mandibles are delicate enough to be able to turn a key in its lock (11). He has antennae (16), and sticky pads on his feet that he uses to climb the walls (23), yet he so large he has immense trouble squeezing through a single open door (15) and his weight requires “two strong persons” (7). He has flanks (15), more a beast-like possession, and nostrils (39) and bulging eyes (18). So while Gregor maintains many beetle-like traits, he is more likely a grotesque mix of insect and human.

So what is Gregor?

Jungian basic principles argue that everything is made up of opposites and that the psyche (the human mind) is motivated by the need to reconcile these opposites, thereby reaching a higher state of consciousness (Lucanio, 15). Jung called this process Individuation. A major aspect of this process is the emergence and recognition of definitive archetypal images. These include: The Shadow (the inferior side of man); The Persona (the outward social façade that is publicly displayed); and the Self (the god-like image that represents individuation) (ibid, 83). Jung said that “The Individuation process brings up the true personality of a person, it makes him an Individual. Individuation generally has a profound healing effect on the person.” (ibid, 14) Has Gregor Samsa reached Individuation?

Gregor has worked as a travelling salesman for the last five years (3), paying off his father’s debt after his business went bust, and gambles that he will need to work another 5 years before the debt is fully paid (4). He has arranged the rental of the Samsa’s apartment (42). He supports the whole family who seem to do nothing but sit at home; at least none of them work. He is the slave to his employer to the extent that the manager of the firm comes to collect him when he is only 15 minutes late (9). Gregor, when he first metamorphoses, frets constantly not about his newfound bug condition but about loosing his job (4). Gregor, the Gregor who exists before the book begins, is Jung’s Shadow – an inferior, riddled with fantasy (sending his sister to college for instance (20)) and resentment to his work colleagues (4). Gregor is, in all sense, treated like a vermin and, as such, metamorphosis into his public Persona – a monstrous vermin. And here, after waking one morning from unsettling dreams, Kafka begins the story.

Gregor is part of an ancient line of storytelling – the shape shifter – the battle between good and evil, or Jungian’s opposites. Consider Dr Jekyl and Mr Hyde: a mad scientist releasing his beast. Or Dorian Gray: who keeps his true self locked away in an attic. It’s an inward Victor Frankenstein: creating the monster within. Frankenstein, another mad scientist (there are a lot of mad scientists in the shape shifter genre) was playing God, renewing life to dead flesh. (In the 1931 James Whale film, there is a line blanked out by the sound effect of thunder: “Now I know what it feels like to be God!” The line was considered blasphemous, but you can still watch his lips move.)

But the Frankenstein and Jekyl are not alone, especially not in the world of cinema. Metamorphosed giant bugs are everywhere. In Roger Corman’s “The Wasp Woman” (1960) the founder of a large cosmetics company, in an attempt to dispel the aging process, starts injecting herself with an extract developed by a crazed scientist, derived from the royal jelly of the queen wasp. It works, shedding twenty years in a single weekend, but in the process turns her into a giant wasp-headed monster with a taste for blood…

“Invasion of the Bee Girls” (1973) was a sexual romp with a small town’s female population being turned into hives of bees by a female mad scientist. The outer world only realises what’s going on when the menfolk start dieing from sexual exhaustion. (Leonard Maltin rates it 3 out of 4 stars. (Maltin, 680))

1997’s “Mimic” has a scientist (here an entomologist) creating a genetically modified cockroach in an attempt to wipe out another breed of cockroach which carries a child-killing disease. The modified ‘roach breeds and breeds, each cycle growing larger and developing a more human appearance, until it starts feeding on subway passengers of Manhatten.

More recently the 2005 film “Mansquito” has another scientist, by trying to stop a mosquito-carried virus, treat some of the mosquitos with radiation to then have them released into the environment to kill off the rest of the brood. In the process the scientist and a convicted murderer get zapped and transform into, you guessed it, giant blood sucking mosquitos.

All these examples feature evil monsters, but the granddaddy metamorphosis film of all “The Fly” (1958), based on a short story by George Langelaan, portrays the creature as the victim. Here a scientist, during a teleportation experiment, morphs himself with a fly creating a human with a fly’s head and claw (instead of a hand), and a fly with a man’s head. Here the “monster”, while grotesque in form, is shown as maintaining his mind, his psyche (to refer back to Jung) remaining human, yet aware that the fly’s influence is slowly taking over. Langelaan’s story was later refilmed by David Cronenberg in 1986 (Cronenberg talks of reading Kafka regularly in interviews (Rodley, 16; Grant, 12)). Cronenberg’s version plays stronger with this notion of the human remaining. Late in the film Jeff Goldblum’s character Seth Brundle says to Geena Davis:

Seth (Goldblum): You have to leave now, and never come back here. Have you ever heard of insect politics? Neither have I. Insects… don’t have politics. They’re very… brutal. No compassion, no compromise. We can’t trust the insect. I’d like to become the first… insect politician. Y’see, I’d like to, but… I’m afraid, uh…

Ronnie (Davis): I don’t know what you’re trying to say.

Seth: I’m saying… I’m saying I – I’m an insect who dreamt he was a man and loved it. But now the dream is over… and the insect is awake.

Ronnie: No. no, Seth…

Seth: I’m saying… I’ll hurt you if you stay.

Gregor Samsa was also an insect that dreamt he was a man, but again, after unsettling dreams, the insect awoke.

So what is Gregor?

What’s interesting about Gregor is that, really, as a person, he is nothing. He’s not a scientist like Brundle or Jeckyl, but a boring travelling salesman – a figure of ridicule. A slave to his employer, he is also a slave to his family. Gregor is the one who is made to work while his father, still fit for duty, lazes at home. Kafka emphasises this captured state when he notes Gregor’s father has even declined to pay off the debt faster – he has money stored away (20) – so in the process keeping his son contracted and allowing the family to feed further off Gregor. As such Gregor, bound by duty and with no strength of mind, becomes the one thing he is treated as – vermin – yet while in this state continues to feel sorry for himself. He begins to resent his sister’s attempts to assist him (25). He turns on his only “friend” the cleaning lady (33), he respects his father for keeping money from him (20), he weeps for his family now that they are resolved to work (29). Finally, full of self-pity (his last breath is taken “without his consent” (39)), he dies. Gregor’s Jungian opposites have met to find they are the same: his Shadow, Persona and Self are the one – a monstrous vermin. Jung’s Individuation’s “profound healing effect” is for Gregor to understand his worthlessness.

But Kafka’s metaphor that “people are vermin” stretches further. His own family suckle on him like fleas on a mangy dog. The manager pompously threatens him with neglect of his duty to the firm (9). His room is treated like a storage closet by both the family and the cleaning maid, ever more crowded, ever more filled with dust (33). The three serious gentlemen, indulge in the Samsa’s hospitality, manipulating Mr Samsa’s weak nature to demand their way (34). In “Metamorphosis” each character feeds off the next, with Kafka continuing this notion to the final paragraph. While enjoying their first day in the sun, the parents become aware of Grete’s blossoming maturity and silently comment it will be soon time to find her a husband (42). Is this merely pride in their daughter’s development? No! It’s an opportunity to sponge off their as yet undiscovered son-in-law and to return back to the indulgent life that Gregor had once provided!

So what is Gregor?

The German title for Kafka’s story is “Die Verwandlung”. The word is closer in meaning to “The Transformation” than “Metamorphosis” – it also refers to the changing of scenes in a play – though, as Corngold suggests the title “Metamorphosis” is slightly more elevated in tone (2). Gregor Samsa has been the constant victim of translation; Cynthia Ozick, refers to it “the impossibility of translating Kafka.” She says that there is “always for Kafka, behind [the overt] meaning” another meaning that can never be translated (Ozick, 81). Victoria Poulakis in her online essay on Kafka translations, compares four versions of the opening sentence alone: unsettling dreams / uneasy dreams / troubled dreams / agitated dreams; and gigantic insect / giant bug / enormous bug / monstrous vermin. Minor changes, but elsewhere Kafka’s meaning can be altered. Does Grete demand that “He’s got to go” or “It has to go” when referring to her brother? It is interesting that Kafka edited Grete’s earlier comment “We must get rid of him” to “We must get rid of it” helping to emotionally distance the character Grete from the creature Gregor (Corngold, 55) (This “distancing” can be considered an example of Grete’s metamorphosis considering she was at first willingly tended to his feeding (18)). Likewise, some translations emphasise the budding sexuality of the developing Grete. While Corngold describes her as a “good-looking shapely girl”, Donna Freed has her now a “pretty and voluptuous young woman”. As such, different interpretation can be attributed to the Grete’s metamorphism, with Freed’s translation emphasising Grete’s increased sexual appeal to potential husbands. This interpretation also gives weight to the argument of her parent’s plans to live off the wealth of the future marriage – a more attractive woman will more likely fetch a more affluent catch – and all the better for them (just like vermin) to feed from. The cycle, at least for the Samsa parents, continues.

Zero Mostel (from “The Producers”) later stared in another metamorphosis film “Rhinceros” (1974) based on Ionesco’s absurdist play, where everyone, in an act of conformity, turn into rhinoceroses. While “The Producers” won the Oscar for best screenplay and cemented the film careers of Mostel, Gene Wilder, and Mel Brooks, “Rhinoceros”, also starring Wilder, didn’t do as well. Maltin rates it: BOMB (Maltin, 1145). Perhaps not all metamorphosises metamorphose equally?

Readings:

Cartmell, D et al (ed). Alien Identities: Exploring Difference in Film and Fiction. Pluto Press, 1999.

Creed, B. The Monstrous-Feminine: Film, Feminism, Psychonanlysis. Routledge, 1993.

Grant, M (ed). The Modern Fantastic – The Films of David Cronenberg. Praeger, 2000.

Kafka, F; trans Corngold, S. The Metamorphosis. Norton Critical Edition, 1996.

Lucanio, P. Them or Us: Archetypal Interpretations of Fifties Alien Invasion Films. Indiana University Press, 1987.

Maltin, L. Leonard Maltin’s 2008 Movie Guide. Plume, 2007

Nabokov, V. Lecture on “Metamorphosis”. Weblink last viewed April 2009: http://victorian.fortunecity.com/vermeer/287/nabokov_s_metamorphosis.htm

Nabokov V. Lectures on Literature. Harvest, 1980.

Ozick, Cynthia. The Impossibility of Being Kafka. The New Yorker, 11 Jan 1999

Poulakis, V. Translation: What Difference Does It Make? Northern Virginia Community College, 2001. Weblink last viewed April 2009: http://www.nvcc.edu/home/vpoulakis/Translation/home.htm

Rodley, C (ed). Cronenberg on Cronenberg. Faber and Faber, 1997.

Films:

The Fly (1958). 20th Century Fox. dir K Neumann; wri G Langelaan (story), J Clavell (screen)

The Fly (1986). Brooksfilms. dir D Cronenberg; wri G Langelaan (story), C Edward Pogue & D Cronenberg (screen)

Frankenstein (1931). Universal Pictures. dir J Whale; wri M Shelley (novel), P Webling (play), J L Balderston (adapt), F Edward Faragoh & G Fort (screen)

Invasion of the Bee Girls (1973). Sequoia Pictures. dir D Sanders; wri N Meyer

Mansquito (2005). Sci Fi Pictures. dir T Takács; wri K Badish, R Cannella, B Davidson, M Hurst

Mimic (1997) Dimension Films. dir G del Toro; D A Wollheim (story), M Robbins & G del Toro (screen)

The Producers (1968). Embassy Pictures. wri & dir M Brooks

Rhinceros (1974), American Film Theatre. dir T O’Horgan; wri E Ionesco (play), J Barry (screen)

The Wasp Woman (1960). Film Group Inc. dir R Corman; wri K Zertuche (story), L Gordon (screen)

Gregor Samsa is pure awesomesauce.

pick up 55:12, Rest, or even one of their early EPs, like 27:13.

I promise you won’t regret it.

I’ve also been listening to a lot of Arcade Fire recently; specifically Funeral.

^couldn’t you tell?

No?

well, I suggest listening to “Neighborhood #2 (Laika).”

It’ll all make sense.

Ho avuto un rapporto tormentato con mio padre, MA NON SONO IL GIOVANE HOLDEN.

Sono stato ingoiato da un mostro gigantesco, MA NON SONO IL BARONE DI MUNCHHAUSEN.

Mi sono trasformato in un animale, MA NON SONO GREGOR SAMSA.

Sono finito ingiustamente in prigione, MA NON SONO IL CONTE DI MONTECRISTO.

CHI SONO?

…Me gustan las flores quisiera tener la casa entera nadando en rosas Dios del cielo no hay nada como la naturaleza las montañas salvajes luego el mar y las olas precipitándose luego la hermosa campiña con campos de avena y trigo y todo género de cosas y todo el lindo ganado andando por allí que haría bien al corazón ver los ríos y los lagos y las flores y todo género de formas y olores y colores brotando hasta de las zanjas primaveras y violetas eso es la naturaleza para aquellos que dicen que no hay Dios no daría ni el blanco de una uña por toda su ciencia por qué no se ponen a crear algo le preguntaba muchas veces al ateos o como se llamen que vayan primero a lavarse sus miserias luego van pidiendo a gritos un sacerdote cuando se mueren y por qué por qué tienen miedo del infierno a causa de su mala conciencia ah sí les conozco bien quién fue la primera persona en el universo antes de que hubiera nadie el que lo hizo todo ah ellos no saben y yo tampoco así pues podrían lo mismo tratar de impedir que el sol saliera mañana el sol brilla por ti me dijo el día que estábamos tumbados entre los rododendros en el promontorio de Howth con el traje de mezclilla gris y su sombrero de paja el día que conseguí que se me declarara si primero le di un poco de la torta de semilla que tenía dentro de mi boca y era bisiesto como ahora sí hace dieciséis años Dios mío tras aquel largo beso yo casi perdí el aliento sí él decía que yo era una flor de la montaña sí eso somos flores todo el cuerpo de mujer sí esa fue la única verdad que dijo en su vida y el sol brilla hoy por ti sí por eso me gustó porque vi que comprendía o sentía como es una mujer y supe que yo podría hacer de él lo que quisiera y le di todo el placer que podía para llevarle a que me pidiera que dijese sí y yo primero no quería contestarle mirando sólo el mar y el cielo estaba pensando en tantas cosas que él no sabía de Mulvey y Mr. Stanhope y Hester y de Papá y del viejo capitan Groves y de los marinos que jugaban a pájaro al vuelo y a saltar del burro y a lavar platos como ellos lo llamaban en el malecón y el centinela frente a la casa del gobernador con esa cosa alrededor del casco blanco pobre diablo medio achicharrado y de las muchachas españolas riendo con sus mantones y sus altas peinetas y de los gritos por la mañana de los griegos judíos árabes y Dios sabe quienes más de todos los rincones de Europa y de la calle del duque y del mercado de aves todas cloqueando ante Larby Sharon y de los pobres burros resbalando medio dormidos y de los vagos tipos dormidos con su cara a la sombra de las gradas y de las grandes ruedas de los carros de bueyes del viejo castillo de hace miles de años sí y de todos aquellos hermosos moros todos de blanco y con turbante como reyes pidiéndole a una que se sentara en su tiendecita y de Ronda con las viejas ventanas de las posadas ojos mirando tras las rejas ocultos para que el enamorado bese los barrotes y de las tiendas de vinos entreabiertas por la noche y las castañueñas y de la noche que perdimos el barco de Algeciras el vigilante rondando sereno con su linterna y oh el mar el mar carmesí a veces como de fuego y las soberbias puestas de sol y las higueras de los jardínes de la Alameda si todas las raras callejuelas y las casas rosa y azul y amarillo y de las rosaledas y los jazmines y los geranios y cactus y de Gibraltar cuando niña y cuando flor de montaña sí cuando puse la rosa en mis cabellos como las muchachas andaluzas la llevan y debí llevar una roja sí, y cómo él me besaba al pie de la pared morisca y me pareció bien lo mismo de él que de otro y después le pedí con los ojos para poder volverle a pedir sí y él luego me pidió si quería decir sí mi flor de montaña y primero le rodeé con mis brazos y lo atraje hacia mí para que pudiera sentir mis pechos todo perfume sí y su corazón latía como alocado y sí dije si quiero Sí

So it’s a catch-up post (as ever), stretching back for three months.

The Leonard Cohen gig on the 22nd of November was originally going to be written about in a post entitled “First we take Marston Green, then we take Berlin”. Not a particularly good title, obviously, but it amused me.

To the NEC arena (has/had it not quite finished changing its name to the LG Arena yet, or has/had it? Confused am [were] we) then, stopping en route for a nice drink in Oldbury’s The Railway Inn at this end. We intended to go to the Wetherspoons at Birmingham International but it was actually shut at half six. Blimey.

He might be older than the dirt in Methuselah’s garden, but Lenny Cohen is still hugely charismatic and (I’m told) very sexy in his double-breasted suit and customary hat. He looked a lot older in the brief spells for which the hat came off. Whilst he’s never been known for being the best technical singer (and makes light of that himself), his deep sonorous voice was amazing. Perfect in every way.

His band were fantastic, n’all. Alongside regular collaborator Sharon Robinson, The Webb Sisters were his other two backing singers. They did the standard (I mean ‘standard’ not ‘bad’) pop-stars-band quasi-gospel backing vox, but from a little bit of their own that they got to do towards the end it seems that their own milieu is a lot folkier. Variation, that’s what we like. His Spanish guitar fella was also really good, and definitely added something beyond just technical proficiency.

Highlights abounded. All of it was a highlight, in fact, but if forced to pick a few than I suppose I’d have to pick “Tower of Song” complete with cheap keyboard and attempts to make Sharon laugh, “Hallelujah” obviously (ooh topical) (well, less so now but it was when I first wrote that), “Thousand Kisses Deep” (one I didn’t know before this gig, but the spoken/recited vocals made it a lot better than the sung recorded version I’ve since heard), a bombastic “First We Take Manhattan”, and probably loads more.

This would have been within my top fifteen gigs ever, easily.

Onwards into December. Whenever my Balkan-gypsy-Hammerhorror-PapaLazaru-danceband faves The Destroyers play at big daytime events (Artsfest, Moseley Folk etc) they’re always enjoyed by lots of little kids who obviously can’t go to the night-time gigs (insert the usual rant from me and various other people here: if there are two bands in the local area who are capable of appealing into a wide variety of people then they’re The Destroyers and Modified Toy Orchestra, and the fact that the conventional music industry’s genre-based schema doesn’t have the ability to read this illustrates a lot of what’s wrong with it). They decided, therefore, to make a daytime children’s show: Tweedeleededeedee, Sir Ru Barb and The Green Wolf at Birmingham Town Hall on Saturday the 6th of December. Lovely idea.

Sadly, it was a bit of a mess, although this was the first ever time it was performed there is plenty of chance to improve. We didn’t attend the singalong workshop type’o’thing that came beforehand, but the play itself had lots of nice ideas that seemed slightly badly done. My main advice would be Turn The Bleedin’ Microphones Up, ‘cos then it might be easier to hear what people are saying (also: persuade the dolly-bird/bit-of-fluff lady that the mic is more useful when spoken into, rather than held at waist level). I imagine it was mostly as a result of this communication breakdown that I found it quite difficult to follow at times. Some of the kids in attendance clearly absolutely loved it and were really getting into it/dancing in their seats, but quite a lot more just seemed to get bored and fractious (especially the little git behind us and his even worse parents). Obviously I don’t like kids to begin with and I do realise the foolishness of moaning about children at a children’s show, but I’m sure quite a few of them would have been a lot more attentive and happy if they’d been able to actually follow what was going on.

I hate saying this, because I really love The Destroyers and have a huge amount of goodwill towards anything they do. I’d also certainly never dispute the fact that this was a worthwhile thing to attempt. There were positives: there was some lovely music, I liked the animations, and the idea of a child been born as a mutant solar-powered sentient bicycle is rare genius. Rare, rare genius.

(Contrasting views exist, of course).

A mooch around Brum followed for a few hours, before heading over to The Old Joint Stock for pies. I very much recommend their pies in there.

Pies aside, the pub also has a theatre. We were there that evening for a stage version of Poe’s “Masque Of The Red Death”, courtesy of The Happiness Patrol. This, I thought, was really good. A two-hander (with the audience and a row of mannequin dolls representing the assembled throng), with Philip Hoyman as a silent servant (who managed to say a lot without saying anything), and Gareth Nichols as an incredibly intense Prince Prospero (a great performance – he kept up a large amount vicious paranoia very effectively for a long time). Unlike the story it centred around Prospero’s neurotic contempt for those he thought he was saving, but the whole thing still had a very eerie air, especially the way the different coloured rooms were represented by bathing the set with lights.

It was veeeeeery hot in there, though. Between the air temperature and all the talk of plague and disease I actually started to come over a bit queasy at the start.

(Other folks write here, here, and here).

To J.B’s for the first time in an age on Tuesday the 9th, and it’s as much of a funny ol’ place as ever. It has what is probably the lowest level of soullessness that a 1,000 capacity pop music venue is ever reasonably likely to have, but gigs there tend to be pretty damn expensive on the door and they never seem to advertise much outside of their own website. It’s unsurprising that the turnout for this Municipal Waste gig was poorer than it might have been elsewhere (I recall a lot more people going to see The Waste at the much smaller Flapper the two times that Gazberg put them on there a few years ago).

Ah well. Iron Lung were the tour support, a two piece (drums/vox and guitar) playing a pretty effective style of violent grind with some slow bits and enjoying their first time in ‘Doodley’ (a mispronunciation that seemed to really upset one heckler, even though his own voice sounded scouse). The sound was absolutely perfect for them and really let their stop/start-on-a-sixpence dynamics shine through, whilst the drummer was a nutter but an endearing one. I really enjoyed them for most of their set, although they did go on for a bit longer than might have been the optimum.

Municipal Waste were massive fun (as always) with their “exactly like DRI but no-one seems to mind, least of all me” thrash metal/hardcore crossover business. They don’t take themselves completely seriously,which is always a good thing. The highlights were predictable – “Thrashin’ Of The Christ”, “Terror Shark” and a rendition of “Municipal Waste IGFYU” after having persuaded most of the audience to get up onto the stage. Their re-titling of “I Wanna Kill The President” as “I Wanna Chill With The President” suggests that they’re not 100% living in the past. Maybe.

(Singer Tony described this gig as “a weird ass show” in a recent interview).

Christmas happened next, obviously. Christmas is lovely.

I don’t like Going To The Pictures. I’m a lot better with films in general than I was a couple of years ago, but I’d still much rather watch one at home and I definitely don’t subscribe to the ‘bigger screen is better’ theory. It’ll pass as a general outing now and again (as long as there’s a sufficiently long gap between ‘now’ and ‘again’), though, and so on Saturday the 10th we went to The Electric Cinema to see Slumdog Millionaire. Florence has since decided she feels the same way about picture-houses and so all is well, but we’d both acknowledge that The Electric is a lot better than most. So very loud, though! That can’t be necessary. The fillum itself was ace, I thought; fast-paced and exciting but still thoughtful, with a happy/fairly sentimental ending but not shying away from displaying the horribleness where necessary.

My first gig of the new year took place on Thursday the 22nd of Jan, going to see Buzzcocks at The Wulfrun Hall in Wolverhampton. Also there was Other Stuff not suited to the maintenance of sanguine temperament, but never mind that.

We went in The Ponderosa first, which was lovely and somewhere I’ll definitely go again. The Lurkers were our supporting artistes for the evening: very Ramones-ish, although perhaps a tiny bit (just a tiny bit) more Oi. Nothing at all new, but I enjoyed them. I especially liked “Come And Reminisce If You Think You’re Old Enough”. Nostalgia ain’t what it used to be.

Speaking of which… nah, only joking, Buzzcocks were fantastic. You can see the years on Pete Shelley though. They were playing the first two albums in full on this tour (that seems to be becoming increasingly common nowadays) alongside other odds and ends came in the encore (although we did have to leave before the end), and they sound as fresh as ever. The big yet intelligent pop hooks which we all know and love weren’t lost in translation as they gave it a surprising amount of welly. Predictably, the bits I found to be highlights were my favourites anyway – “On Our Own”, “Sixteen”, “Fallen In Love”, and… probably some others, I dunno. Lovely fun.

On Saturday the 24th we headed to the Crescent Theatre for Of Mice And Men, courtesy of their own theatre company. The Crescent can be bloody annoying at times. The bar/stairs/corridor were packed with people beforehand, as people hoping to attend the events in both the main room and the smaller one (where this was) walk in every possible direction in small spaces. At least the interval times seem to be staggered on this occasion, unlike the last time I went.

I’m blessed to have seen the definitive (no really it was) stage version of OMAM at The Rep with Matthew Kelly (no really he was), and it didn’t really surprise me to find that this one wasn’t as good. That’s not to say it was bad, though. Everyone in it seemed a little bit wooden and there was plenty of stumbling over lines, but I don’t want to go over the top with that – the cast did a decent job if not spectacular job. The use of space was very good: Candy (the black character, you’ll recall), for example, was present on stage for most of the time but separated from the rest of the cast in an effective mirror of the way he (and everyone else) are isolated.

(Thoughts on taking some kiddies to see it can be found a few paragraphs down here).

Arriving at The Rainbow to see Gregor Samsa on Monday the 26th (I was lucky to find out about the gig. I’m so out of touch these days…), I saw more stuff packed onto the stage than you often see. It was quite the sight. Saw. See. Sight.

Dream Dreams The Dreamer was our sole support for the evening (gigs with only two acts on the bill seem to increasingly be the standard aroundabout now. I don’t like this tendency) and I really wanted to like him, since I never seem to get much out of that Esquilax circle of bands. Ah well. It started with slow chords and screams reminiscent of some less-distorted version of Khanate, before building up to a maelstrom of wrecked organ sounds, feedback and white noise. Fun as that sounds, it didn’t convey anything to me beyond “I Are Sirius Cat”.

I really enjoy Gregor Samsa’s recent album while it’s playing, but can never remember a note of it afterwards (or, indeed, its title – I’ve just had to look up the fact that it’s called “Rest”. It should be noted that neither of these things are particularly unusual for me, particularly the latter). I’m not sure whether going to see them thus makes more or less sense, given that live music is just a half-recalled moment in time. They sounded absolutely gorgeous, whichever way up. A more song-y/standardly postrock-y Sigur Ros is the overall impression they give on record but live they came across as a more song-y Efterklang, with a very lush sound built from a really effective combination of little subtle things and big broad strokes (that’ll be what all the instruments packing the stage were for. Ah right Ted). The small-ish crowd applauded very enthusiastically at the end.

On top of all that, any band with a Kafka reference for a name will automatically be good. I’m sick of having to tell you this.

To the Old Joint Stock Theatre on Friday the 30th, for a version of Look Back In Anger from BISPA/Birmingham Stage School Showbiz. The play itself was new to me, but I loved it. Most of all it was extremely funny, but also a very good depiction of frustration with staid and archetypal lives.

The performance didn’t seem as good as it perhaps might have been, though. The main and biggest problem was that it was too fast – they galloped through it with nary a pause between hastily delivered sentences. A bit of breathing space really might have helped. A bit more clear enunciation might have been nice, too, Luke Beard’s Alex (a performance influenced by John Cleese, one wonders?) in particular. They’re young, though, and I’m sure it’ll all come with experience (and I sincerely apologise for sounding so patronising with that). Let’s be positive: I did really like Davut-Sebastian Atterbury (what a name) as Colonel Redfern, and I definitely wouldn’t say they were outright bad on the whole. Whichever way up, they definitely sold me on the play. I’d like to see the film now, in fact.

(Reviewed here).

The afternoon of Sunday the 1st of Feb saw me going to a boxing card for the first time since June. Warrior Promotions and First Team had joined forces to promote this extravaganza, and sitting there beforehand waiting for things to start I found myself awash with sensations. Anticipation~! Of what was to come. Amusement~! At The Tower Ballroom’s seriously 70s décor. Dismay~! About the fact that someone had let Terry O’ Conner into the building, and if they’re silly enough to do that they’re probably also silly enough to let him referee some boxing matches.

I’d half-forgotten the “home boxer vs journeyman” nature of local cards. It’s not that I dislike watching those matches, necessarily, but given that it ain’t cheap to get in it’s not what you ideally want. Outside of two matches, the “..and his opponent…” corner didn’t win a single round all afternoon/evening. The two exceptions, happily, were really good fights: Rhys Davies took on Hastings Rasani in one of the best few four-rounders I’ve ever seen (toe-to-toe in an almost literal sense from start to finish. Given that this was only Rhys’ second pro fight it’s also worth saluting the brave matchmaking that led to this) and Tony Randell upset Max Maxwell in a gritty ten-rounder for the Midlands area middleweight title (that result surprised me, but not enough to cry robbery or anything like that. I thought Maxwell had edged it with busier and cleaner work, but I suppose Randell – who looked a hell of a lot better than he did last time I saw him – did land more hurtful-looking shots and he definitely had a big finish).

Never mind all that, though, the important bit: Ring Entrance (and, indeed, Name) Of The Day goes to Quinton Hillocks, who came down to the sound of Soulja Boy whilst wearing a superman cape.

(The BBN report on this card can be read here).

The 6th was the occasion for An Inspector Calls at The Rep, and it was really very good indeed – a reprise of the Stephen Daldry production that apparently was very well received some years ago, and in itself a subtly clever play with more obvious (but still worthwhile) stuff laid over the top. The scenery not only looked great but worked with well with the narrative: their big posh house in the centre functioning as the citadel that they the family are dragged out of as they are forced to think about the world outside of their own immediate gratification. At the end only Sheila and Eric end up outside, being the only two who have learned from the experience. Louis Hilyer’s performance as Inspector Goole was certainly very stylised (I would like to know what the stage directions in the script say in comparison to this), but the cast as a whole were very good (particularly Robin Whiting as Eric. I could imagine him in a lot of Coward/Wilde type things).

(Reviews a-plenty! Try here, there, here, there, here, elsewhere, everywhere, probably other places too…)

On Friday the 13th (ooh scary etc etc) we went to see the absolutely brilliant These Four Streets at The Rep Door. Based around the 2005 riot in Lozells in Birmingham (where the rumour of a rape escalated into argey bargey and resulted in a death), it was poignant but also funny and most of all humane. That it was of local interest also goes without saying. It took the form of a series of vignettes of local life, showing how little things can rise and create tension up to the point where only a spark is needed (whether it’s true or has any basis in reality or not). Some were one-offs and some had recurring characters, with the best being the old Jamaican grandmother comforting the runaway asian child and the genuinely tearjearking kid leaving pizza at his mate’s grave. The whole cast were really strong and showed range in delivering a variety of different characters, but a particular salute should go to Lorna Laidlaw. It’s still touring here and there, and is definitely worth seeing – if there’s anything from this whole post that I’d recommend then it’s this one. (EDIT: Alright, so I’d forgotten about Leonard Cohen when I typed that bit. He ain’t likely to tour in the immediate future, though, whereas I know “These Four Streets” is going to be around and about…)

(This initially seemed under-reviewed, but they’ve poured in since then. Try here, here, here, here, and here).

Woozle very kindly allowed me permission to go out on Saturday the 14th for “Priest Feast” (what a name for a tour. What a dream of a name), and so after being disabused of the notion that it was at the NIA (happily this happened before I set out) I headed off to the NEC/LG/Whatever-Have-You Arena. I am only vaguely familiar with Testament but I did enjoy their set a lot. I do at least know that the main thing you want when you go to see them is air guitar on the mic stand (I suppose that’s not actually air guitar. Stand guitar, if you will), and we got plenty. Great thrashing fun, anyway.

I saw Megadeth at only the second gig I ever attended way back in the September of 1997 (the sound was beyond dreadful but it didn’t bother me: my inexperienced self thought that maybe gigs were just like that at that sort of scale. Also: eleven and a half years ago. Ceiling Cat almighty), but that was then and this is now. They have done a lot of complete and utter tut in their time, but they stuck to the good stuff here and so all was great. “She-Wolf” was dedicated to all the She-Wolves on Valentines Day (aaaaw. How romantic), and the amazing one-two of “Symphony Of Destruction” and “Peace Sells… But Who’s Buying?” put a massive grin across my face. Dave Mustaine still has a very strange singing voice. He’s still also ginger. I’m sure we wouldn’t have him any other way.

How does one write about the Judas Priest live experience? I suppose the easiest way to sum it all up is that they were what you’d expect in a good way, rather than what you’d expect in a bad way. Thus: ace. Disconnected thoughts would include: Look at Rob Halford there, enjoying himself in his glittery coat; It was a bit of a disappointment that Halfo didn’t initially ride onto the stage on his Harley, but he did that for the encore so all was well. Didn’t hit anything, either; It’s worth noting that The Priest are the first act I’ve seen since Usher to use a hydraulic lift on stage: All (well, most) of your big singalong faves were played – Breaking The Law, Electric Eye, Rock Hard Ride Free, Another Thing Comin’; Painkiller was absolutely shredding; That first one they played from the new album (“I Am Nostradamus”?) sounded fun, too; Priest~!

Right, that’ll do us for the time being. There’s been a big London trip and another boxing do since then, but they can wait for the moment.

Acho que Gregor Samsa é a coisa que tenho mais gostado de ouvir, e foi ouvindo que decidi dar uma passeio pelos textos, poeminhas e escritos antiguinhos, isso resultou em um forte sentimento de traição, mas seria mentira se eu dissesse que sinto culpa, acho que eu costumo sentir muita culpa por conveniência, mas até que melhorei com isso. Mas o fato é que foi maravilhoso e os meus dedos quase se mecheram sozinhos, seja pra fazer remendos seja pra excluir. Não tenho problemas em excluir, mas sim em fazer remendos e um tipo especial de remendos: os feitos depois de muito tempo.

Eu não sei se me reconheço sempre que leio uma coisa que escrevi há tempos, esse questionamento surgiu enquanto lia, algumas vezes eu não me reconheci. Estou bastante confusa com essa questão de se reconhecer…por exemplo quando penso em mim criança, eu me sinto como alguém que foi criança, é a Ju, ela, quando era criança e não eu…Mas é verdade que são várias pessoas, né?

As vezes começo as coisas e não sinto vontade nenhuma de terminar, como aconteceu agora (haha).

São apenas coisas escritas(são pedaços de pedaços), talvez não tenham sentido, que eu vou mostrar porque consegui independencia delas e até gosto:

a verdade é que ninguém nunca lê
a alma não lê;

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Deixe de ser eu pra entrar em mim.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eu vejo nas nuvens
seios belos e alvos
de uma donzela desconhecida.
O esplendor que salta da nuvem
e atinge meu corpo
faz de minh’alma puro joguete do desejo.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

…Gosto de rolar como um abacate que cai no chão…
gosto de morder, gritar, emitir sons…Gosto dessa minha efusidade irritante
Eu quero sentar na calçada tagarelar e sorrir como quem é feliz, com as pernas soltas falando asneiras, e me sentindo um chuveiro que fala e é retardado…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A comida estava passando fome
e pra matá-la:
me comeu!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Bir sabah tedirgin düşlerden uyanan Gregor Samsa, devcileyin bir böceğe dönüşmüş buldu kendini. Bir zırh gibi sertleşmiş sırtının üzerinde yatıyor, başını biraz kaldırınca yay biçiminde katı bölmelere ayrılıp bir kümbet yapmış kahverengi karnını görüyordu; bu karnın tepesinde yorgan, her an kayıp tümüyle yere düşmeye hazır, ancak zar zor tutuna bilmekteydi. Vücudunun kalan bölümüne oranla acınacak kadar cılız bir sürü bacakçık, ne yapacaklarını şaşırmış, gözlerinin önünde aralıksız çakıp sönüyordu.“

Note to self: do not schedule any layovers at the Prague airport…

Jackson has yet to learn how to operate wordpress so I am still forced to do his post for him. Who says doing a best of 2008, half way into 2009 is a little late. But we don’t mind. In no particular order….

This town needs guns – Animals

Outstanding indie music that proves good musicianship needs not be wasted. While it’s not for everyone, fans of minus the bear will find this to be a breath of fresh air that proves technical music can still be emotional and sincere.                    

Spitfire – Cult Fiction

Ridiculously heavy music that will make the average Joe cringe. While the future of the band is nonexistent, Spitfire leaves us with an album that’s honesty will haunt you, a cd that brings heavy music back to it’s original purpose, while still bringing so much more to the table.

Copeland – You Are My Sunshine

Eat Sleep Repeat was a great direction for Copeland after their sophomore release of In Motion, in which I almost gave up on this band. However, You are My Sunshine proved to be the band’s best album yet, full of melodies that are not only catchy but have true and original substance.

Meshuggah – Obzen

Meshuggah is the best at what they do, ridiculous rhythms that will sound unorganized to most listeners but are a real treat to people who are able to keep up. Although there’s not anything particularly special about this Meshuggah album is comparison to others with the exception of the song “Bleed”, it is definitely a release worthy of repeated listens.

Gregor Samsa – Rest

Gregor Samsa’s myspace says “slow and sad, or slow and happy, but never fast and anything” Gregor Samsa is not a band that ever “picks up” and it’s true, it might put you to sleep. But I guarantee you this will be the best sleep you’ll ever get, as the band carries the listener through beautiful atmospheres that carry the intent and real understanding of mellow music truly lacking in so many bands nowadays. This album will give you chills on first listen if you have the patience to stay awake.

Admiral Angry – Buster

No, this is not just on the top ten list because I am friends with Admiral Angry, this album is atrocious, in the best ways possible, it is so disgusting that you’ll want to shower after listening. Although the cover art may suggest something much more contemporary, Buster will take you on a journey full of addiction and filth, a cd so relentless that it hurts.

Thrice – The Alchemy Index (Water)

Thrice is a band we’ve all grown up with, and while I can no longer even stand the earlier Thrice that I used to so much enjoy, Water proves to be a release that stands for musical maturity. Through the uses of lyrical story telling and outstanding variety, this will be six songs you’ll find on frequent repeat if given an honest chance.

This Will Destroy You – This Will Destroy You

Post rock: the new metalcore, but hey,  what’s so wrong with that? This album has all the common predicaments of a post rock album yet it is executed so incredibly well that it’s not a problem. Although post rock is starting to be over done, This Will Destroy You is so good at what they do that I’m hoping that they’re here to stay.

Intronaut – Prehistoricisms

Although I have some grief about the production of this album in comparison to Challenger, Intronaut wrote an album that the listener must pay very close attention to detail. Even though the album is full of elements that musicians may only notice, it is done in a way subtle enough that most listeners will not find overbearing

Coldplay – Viva La Vida

I almost had to take this album off the list after listening to Coldplay’s more recent collaboration with Jay Z. What were they thinking? Viva La Vida is however a fantastic release that proves that mainstream music can still be genuine, with song writing approaches that are far from cliché. It’s on television, radio, and you’ll hear it at your local grocery store, but don’t write this album off just for that, there is real music behind all the bullshit associated with Coldplay.

Close runner ups:

Protest the hero – Fortress

Capsule – Blue

Cult of Luna – Eternal Kingdom

Why? – Alopecia

Bayside – Shudder

Helen and I had a lot of fun putting together our wedding ceremony playlist.  We were going to go with live music, knowing a couple of stellar musicians, but alas, we were unable to get them music as early as we wanted to, so we pulled the plug on going live, and went with mp3’s.  Still, I think it turned out great, with much thanks to DJ Duer and DJ Will-the-Thrill.

Several of our friends knew almost all of the music we played at our ceremony.  And several other friends said they loved the music but wanted to know what it was.  So I’m posting our ceremony playlist here.  Note that I edited several songs in GarageBand (typically just simple looping or cutting and fading).

Prelude

• Veni Sancti Spiritu by Taize Community Choir (Songs of Taize) 3:46
• Holy Holy Holy by Sufjan Stevens (Songs for Christmas [5]) 3:33
• Ain Leuh (VPRO) by Gregor Samsa (Over Air) 5:09
• Untitled 3 by Sigur Ros ( ( ) ) 6:33
• Agaetis Byrjun by Sigur Ros (Agaetis Byrjun) 7:56
• Godan Daginn by Sigur Ros (Med sud i eyrum vid spilum endalaust) 5:15
• The Dress Looks Nice on You by Sufjan Stevens (Seven Swans) 2:32 (edited in GarageBand)

Processional

• song: Olsen Olsen by Sigur Ros (Agaetis Byrjun) 2:49 (beginning of song, edited in GarageBand)

o Groom’s grandparent
o Bride’s grandparents

• song: Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois by Sufjan Stevens (Come On Feel the Illinois) 1:32 (edited in GarageBand)

o Groom’s parents
o Bride’s parents

• song: Reckoner by Radiohead (In Rainbows) 2:31 (edited in GarageBand)

o Groomsmen: Kirby Priest (Best Man), Kyle Priest, Brian Harrison, Paul Bannister, Sam Howell
o Groom, ministers

• song: Lake Yarina by Josh Garrels (Jacaranda) 2:37

o bridesmaids: Claire Howell (Matron of honor), Darby Priest, Jessica James, Emily Kochetkova, Nathalie Cordoba

• song: Floral Duet by Lamke 1:44 (edited in GarageBand)

o Bride and Father

Holy Communion Song

• Christ, We Do All Adore Thee (sung a capella by community)

Recessional

• song: Olsen Olsen by Sigur Ros (Agaetis Byrjun) 2:46 (end of song, edited in GarageBand)

Dismissal

• Window in the Skies by U2 (Window in the Skies) 4:01