Moby Dick, or The Whale tells, among many other things, the story of Captain Ahab and his monomaniacal pursuit of a great white sperm whale named Moby Dick.  The whale chewed off his leg some years past, and he is going to get even or die trying.  Who was Ahab?  As with almost everything else in the book, there are biblical overtones, usually Old Testament ones.

The Reign of Ahab
Kings 1: 16

And in the thirty and eighth year of Asa king of Judah began Ahab the son of Omri to reign over Israel: and Ahab the son of Omri reigned over Israel in Samaria twenty and two years.

And Ahab the son of Omri did evil in the sight of the LORD above all that were before him. And it came to pass, as if it had been a light thing for him to walk in the sins of Jerobo’am the son of Nebat, that he took to wife Jez’ebel the daughter of Ethba’al king of the Zido’ni-ans, and went and served Ba’al, and worshipped him.

And he reared up an altar for Ba’al in the house of Ba’al, which he had built in Samaria.

Ahab married Jezebel, a foxy, pagan, princess from one of the neighboring non-Hebrew tribes that the Jews were always slaying and feuding with, and he was seduced into her ungodly ways.  He listened to false prophets, and imprisoned or executed the true ones, largely at the urging of Jezebel. The Lord was not pleased, and he dealt harshly with Ahab, his sons, and Jezebel, who ended up being shredded and devoured by dogs as predicted by Elijah.  Naturally, the crew of Captain Ahab’s ship, the Pequod, regarded him a bit warily.  Is he mad?  Money talks in the end:  Ahab nails a Spanish coin to the mast and gives the men a pep talk.

Whosoever of ye raises me a white-headed whale with a wrinkled brow and a crooked jaw; whosoever of ye raises me that white-headed whale, with three holes punctured in his starboard fluke — look ye, whosoever of ye raises me that same white whale, he shall have this gold ounce, my boys!

Being many things, the book is a meditation on death, and life, and the relationship between the two.  The entire crew dies in the pursuit of Moby, who shatters the Pequod as the whalers pursue him at the end.  Only Ishmael survives to tell the tale, quoting the bible, in this case, Job:

… and they are dead; and I only am escaped alone to tell thee.

In the midst of calm and peace, Melville can find chaos and terror, as in this passage about standing watch in the crow’s nest, high above the vast sea…

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship; by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hold at all; and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps, at mid-day, in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through that transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise for ever. Heed it well, ye Pantheists!

… and amidst chaos and carnage, he can find peace and the still point at the center of the universe, as in this passage where Ishmael describes being in the midst of a enormous pod of whales which the men are busily slaughtering – the water is remarkably clear, and looking down into it, he sees whales copulating, being born, nursed…

And thus, though surrounded by circle upon circle of consternations and affrights, did these inscrutable creatures at the centre freely and fearlessly indulge in all peaceful concernments; yes, serenely revelled in dalliance and delight. But even so, amid the tornadoed Atlantic of my being, do I myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm; and while ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve round me, deep down and deep inland there I still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.

But even so, amid the tornadoed Atlantic of my being, do I myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm. I like that line.  Amidst the torrent of events, there is a still center.  This leads us to today’s treat for you, oh reader!  An excerpt from the second known text, The Sailor’s True Binnacle, in the mostly lost series, The Wine of Life, authored by the the unknown thinker, Lichanos, from whom I have taken my blog nom de plume.

A binnacle is a casing for a navigation compass which is non-magnetic, and allows the compass to move freely and to point the way.  It is mounted on gimbals so that it can remain steady and horizontal despite the tossing and rolling of the ship, and always pointed to north.  Calm center, within the storm.

Pauvre reader!  O poor lecteur!

How our Souls are all pitched and tossed about like the frailest shallop or jerry-built wherry upon the boiling waves!  What Trials we have known struggling against current and headwind, seeking only to be Sturdy Helmsmen as we pass between the Devil and the deep blue sea!

The Sailor guiding his vessel is blessed with two articles with which he may ply his rudder:  his binnacle and his compass.

[text lost]…Yet still the Gnashing, the Lamentation:  “Where is our binnacle? Where is our compass? The Answer to these soulful queries has been the quest of many great men, both Good and Evil.

[text lost]… Bewilderment, begone! … [text lost]… The mystery of the True Binnacle stands revealed.  To the compass of our minds is the Body our Binnacle, standing in its organic fleshiness impervious to the Magnetism which seeks etermally to deflect our inner Director from its true course.  Be not skeptical nor materialist, for Mind/Body are one, and through our Binnacle/Bodies are we led and do lead.  Truth once again arises from out of unity of Mind/Body, so that pleasures owing to one are not denied to the other:  they work in tandem, a mighty engine of enlightenment propelling our dynamo sense onward to that final effulgent union with the ground of all …[text lost]

Hi-ho! me buck-o’s, through our skin we will absorb the World and revel in the Universe, sailing through the placid lake of the firmament to our own Safe Haven.  Our Compass shall rock on its Gimbals of Life, and we will dirnk, as sailors we all are and are all wont to do, aye! we will drink the Wine of Life.

-Lichanos

Something smells awful. Is it the rotting, bloated whales a neighboring ship has chained to her sides? Is it the unscrupulous deceit with which Stubb tricks the captain of the neighboring ship into giving him a valuable, though rotting, whale? Or is it simply all the smelly Frenchmen on board this ship, along with their cologne-making captain?

These are the circumstances with which we meet the Rose-bud, a French whaling vessel almost as incompetent as the German vessel we met a few chapters earlier. Unlike the German ship, whose crew furiously chased whales but couldn’t apprehend them, the Rose-bud has chosen to scavenge for whales already dead in the water. Ishmael identifies both of the whales found by the Rose-bud as “blasted” whales, or whales which have “died unmolested on the sea.” Despite all evidence to support Ishmael’s assessment, Stubb insists that one of the whales in question was harpooned and drugged by the Pequod in an earlier chase and, though lost to them at the time, should not belong to the scavenging Frenchmen. Identifying the other scavenged whale as potentially containing valuable ambergris, Stubb plots his revenge.* Though played out as humorous, the trick Stubb plays on the French captain, with the help of a Guernsey-man on board, is not only deceitful, but insulting, demeaning, and cruel.** In short, like the rotting whales, Stubb’s behavior turns both the nose and the stomach.

Our culture uses a variety of metaphors to optimistically suggest goodness in the heart of badness — pearl in the oyster, oasis in the desert, diamond in the rough, clouds with silver linings***, etc. — but Stubb’s trickery and greed turns the metaphor on its head somewhat. What do we make of a situation where a sweet smell found amidst a stench suggests a deeper, far less superficial kind of rot? Has the self-serving ethos of capitalism deprived us of any true optimism?

*Ambergris is a fatty, oily substance found in the intestines of sick whales, possibly a sort of lubricant for ingested irritants. Used for cosmetics and perfumes, ambergris was even more valuable than oil.

**Guernsey is an English island off the coast of France.

***Or Zinc linings, according to Alex P. Keaton.

Chapter 91: The Pequod meets the Rose-bud

From the heart of the stench
A rose-bud blooms,
A rose-bud blooms for the day.

The brilliant devise,
A posture to prize,
The moment’s luck from dismay.

As adjoining streams
Join as one, kneeling
Through the banks of probable decay,
Cannot claim perfume
Into rotten wounds,
May your sweetness live above the day!

Tides of the stench
Will ebb and flow,
And you, untouched, my Amber-Gray.

As adjoining streams
Join as one, kneeling
Through the banks of probable decay,
Cannot claim perfume
Into rotten wounds,
May your sweetness live above the day!

From the heart of the stench
A rose-bud blooms,
A rose-bud blooms for the day.

Tides of the stench
Will ebb and flow,
And you, untouched, my Amber-Gray.

(c) and (p) 2008 Patrick Shea
Words and music written by Patrick Shea October 9, 2008
All parts performed, arranged, and recorded by Patrick Shea November 7, 2009

We took a road trip to Western Massachusetts recently.  Highlights included a trip to Herman Melville’s house, where he wrote Moby Dick.

Mass Moca and the new Sol LeWitt Installation, on view now through 2033. (It feels weird to type 2033!)

and a trip up Mount Greylock, the highest peak in Mass during peak foliage.  Herman Melville could see this peak from his study, and took inspiration from it for Moby Dick because the snow covered profile reminded him of a Sperm Whale’s back.

All pictures from our trip are here.

Something else I completed recently was some more artwork for Glasgow-based band Call Me Ishmael; a cover for their new demo/ EP.

I worked up about three different versions, more or less along the same lines, and this is one of the rejects. Thought I’d share it.

[The image above (like the one at the bottom of this post) is from a design by Paul Lasaine for an abandoned version of Moby Dick developed by Dreamworks, directed by the Brizzi brothers. You can see several more images at his blog. The plan was to tell the story from the whale's point of view; a fascinating idea that the studio didn't want to follow up.]

I’m planning to post updates here on Spectacular Attractions about the two forthcoming adaptations of Moby Dick , along with notes about earlier versions. It’s something I’m distracted by at the moment, so this is an outlet. If anyone has further information than I can gather from the Web, please add comments below.

Here’s some of what we know so far. Timur Bekmambetov, director of Wanted is signed to direct a massive-budget version for Universal Pictures, which will begin shooting once he’s finished making Wanted II. From what I can tell, it sounds like they’re inspired by the graphic-novel aesthetic of 300, which preserved the pictorialism of Frank Miller’s original text but, for my money, made it too pristine and over-designed to be emotionally engaging. The script has been written by Adam Cooper and Bill Collage. You may find Cooper’s statement enticing: I find it kind of ominous:

Our vision isn’t your grandfather’s ‘Moby Dick’. This is an opportunity to take a timeless classic and capitalize on the advances in visual effects to tell what at its core is an action-adventure revenge story.

To that end, they’ve removed Ishmael’s first-person narration. This means that we can see lots more scenes of Moby Dick trashing other ships, without being limited to one character’s perspective. But Ishmael’s narration is always subjective, questionable – part of the drama of reading Moby Dick is feeling the distance between literature and experience. You can feel the narrator’s urge to communicate every detail of what he sees, but you can also feel the mystique of folklore, the tingle of secondhand reports of a sea monster. Seeing more of Moby Dick undermines some of the mythic structure of the novel, in the same way that remaking Jaws with lots of close-up views of a CGI shark would throw away what made it frightening in the first place. But obviously, it’s too early to judge. Certainly, Melville’s book provides plenty of opportunity for awesome spectacle, but it would be a shame if that came at the expense of its ability to create a detailed picture of life on a whaling ship, or the complex psychology of its narrator.

First up, though, Mike Barker is directing another adaptation for TV (produced by Germany’s Tele Munchen Group) with a budget of over $25,000,000, with William Hurt as Ahab, Charlie Cox as Ishmael, Gillian Anderson as Elizabeth, Ethan Hawke as Starbuck, Apocalypto’s Raoul Trujillo as Queequeg, plus Eddie Marsan and Donald Sutherland.  It’s written by Nigel Williams, who scribbled a damn fine script for HBO’s Elizabeth I with Helen Mirren, and used to write episodes for Jim Henson’s The Storyteller: let’s hope he’s still got some of that knack for tale-spinning. There’s quite a bit of teasing info, and lots of photos from the set, at the website of  Shelburne County, Nova Scotia, where the film finished shooting last month: it was dressed to look like 19th-century Nantucket. I’m afraid you’ve already missed it, but there was an auction of props used in the film: see here for pictures.

On her blog, Gillian Anderson hints at a harmonious set with good relations amongst the cast, but also that it was “cursed”:

Anyhoo so here is LAX and on my way to the welcome drizzle of London before the welcome sunshine of somewhere else and time just flies and flies and I wish I could tell you what I’m doing next but I can’t and Oh there was Moby Dick which was so much fun and such a great group of people not least of which was the director Michael Barker who is an angel of a man and Ethan (Hawke) and Charlie (Cox) and then William (Hurt) and oh my Donald Sutherland who I would give my left anything to properly work with again. It was blessed. Well, and cursed but I won’t go into that.

I think we would want an adaptation of one of the most monumental literary expressions of reckless obsession to require similar levels of anguish to recreate. That’s probably a silly superstitious belief, but there’s a strong mythos that surrounds the big productions that run into difficulties. It would seem cheeky to remake Moby Dick with too much ease, when it took Melville so much effort to drag out of his mind, condensing his arduous seafaring experiences into a gargantuan statement of the awe and danger of nature. It is scheduled for completion early in 2010.

How odd that we’ll get two adaptations in such a short space of time. The differences between them will, I hope, prove interesting and illuminating on the topic of transitions from literary to screen media.

Above you see Orson Welles in his ship pulpit in the 1956 adaptation of Moby Dick.

I’d enjoy having this pulpit in my home. I’d love to give a sermon from that pulpit.

Even better might be that pulpit hooked up to the back of a truck. I bet could draw some crowds.

What would I say? I’m sure I would come up with something.

Here is Welles delivering the sermon in this movie version Moby Dick.

At the beginning of the sermon the pastor refers to the parishioners as “shipmates.”

We are all indeed  shipmates in life on the Earth.

Here is the text of the sermon in Moby Dick.

Here is a review of Moby Dick from a modern reader. People still read this book.

Here is the link to Herman Melville.org.

Look at this fine event held each year in New Bedford, Massachusetts—

The Moby-Dick Marathon, a nonstop reading of the novel, will celebrate its Fifth Annual read, starting Wednesday January 3rd at 12 noon and ending Thursday January 4th at about 1 PM. The dates celebrate the anniversary of Herman Melville’s departure from the port of New Bedford aboard the Fairhaven whaleship in 1841. About 150 readers will take part, including several in non-English languages. If interested in reading, contact Laura at 508-997-0046 extension 34 or whaling@ma.ultranet.com“

That sounds like a fine event to attend.

A good book I’ve read about whaling is–Leviathan–A History of Whaling in America by Eric Jay Dolan.

Here is the link to the New Bedford Whaling Museum. On that site there is information about other things you can do in New Bedford.

New Bedford was the capital of American whaling.

I went to New Bedford a few times as a kid growing up in Rhode Island. But is has been so long I just can’t recall the town. I bet there is plenty of history well worth spending some time to see and investigate.

Ein Update zu: Vor dem Mast und unter Segeln und: Mit Tschechow nach Marzahn

Vor dem Mast, ganz ohne schützende Kajüte, rackerte ich diesmal selber.

Vorletzten Dienstag, Berliner Tschechow-Theater in Marzahn.
Ich bin eingeladen. Ha, und Special Guest. Thema des Abends: siehe oben.

Vom Plattenbauhimmel regnet es Strippen. Wettermäßig also schonmal ein Minus für Feierabendkultur mitten in der Woche und für die Feuertaufe einer bestenfalls Backstage semibekannten Freizeit-Entertainerin. Ein Plus: die Reihe „Kultur der Welt“ ist etabliert und läuft regelmäßig, einmal im Monat. Noch ein Plus, das mindestens drei wert ist: weit und breit keine Konkurrenz.

Geplant ist… nun, sagen wir, eine literarische Reise durch Neuengland. Genau genommen geht’s eher an dessen Küste entlang: durch die einstigen Walfängerhäfen von Nantucket und New Bedford, ein bisschen Boston und Harvard, ein bisschen Geschichte der Indianer und der alten Pilgerväter; dann, wie es sich für eine Hexe gehört, rauf nach Salem zum ollen Nathaniel Hawthorne und zurück über Cape Cod mit einer Prise Seefahrerromantik. Im Gepäck Herman Melvilles dicken alten Wal und ein paar Bücher drumrum, zweidrei Rezepte zum Thanksgiving-Vogel und für das ungeschlagene chowderhafte Nationalgericht – das Ganze gut durchgerührt mit zwei Handvoll Walfängershantys.

Eine Stunde vorher da sein muss reichen für einen Schnelldurchlauf mit dem Techniker, der das Programm noch nicht kennt. Doch die Generalprobe fällt aus – meinen hergeborgten Laptop aus der Zeit der Erfindung des Morseapparates zum Pseudopowerpointpräsentieren zu überreden, kostet alles. Und der aufopferungsvolle Dompteur der Technik g i b t alles. Er umgarnt mich und und sich und die Bühne mit einem Gestrüpp aus Kabeln für Rechner, Beamer, Stereoanlage, zwei Leselampen und was weiß ich noch alles. Die Katastrophe scheint sich anzubahnen, als abenteuerliche Bildschirmzickereien mir meine im Akkord so wunderhübsch gebastelte Bilder- und Videoreihenfolge im Skript zerschießen und mein Helfer sich darin hoffnungslos verheddert. Na, das kann ja heiter werden!

Der Countdown läuft. Noch eine Viertelstunde… für angemessenes Hyperventilieren und Lampenfieber bleibt keine Zeit. Im Blick des braven Technikus die blanke Panik – als sei Moby Dick hinter ihm her. Das ist der Augenblick, in dem mich die Ruhe vor dem Sturm überkommt. Ich schenke dem Ärmsten mein schönstes Lächeln und mir den fälligen Herzkasper… setze mich hin und numeriere unsere zwei Achtseiten-Skripte per Hand neu durch.

Unser Theaterchen hat sich inzwischen gemächlich gefüllt. Nun ja, man will ja nicht grad behaupten, dass die Leut’ sich um die Tickets balgten an diesem verregneten Abend, doch das Publikum ist klein, fein und erlesen und die Stimmung an den Cafehaustischchen erwartungsvoll. Eine Dame wedelt aufgeregt mit dem Programm: sie wollte sich heute eigentlich irgendwohin „Flussabwärts“ treiben lassen, bleibt aber trotzdem. Im Parkett links (also von mir aus rechts) hat sich, wie mir von Frau Intendantin gerade gesteckt, als besondere Herausforderung eine Vertretung der Marzahner schreibenden Arbeiter oder wie die heißen niedergelassen. Ja, schlürft nur euren Schoppen, das macht gute Laune, und die kann ich heut wie nix anderes brauchen. Ich selber hab bloß ‘ne Kaffeeüberdosis und mein Hals ist ganz trocken.

Und dann geht’s los und es beginnt… nanu, nicht der Super-GAU? Wer hätte das gedacht. Dabei weiß doch jedes Kind, womit verhunzte Generalproben enden. Alles läuft super. Und das sogar trotz des alles entscheidenden Geständnisses gleich als Einstieg: Moby Dick kam nicht bis Massachusetts – schlimmer, die Reiseveranstalterin auch noch nie. Wenn man mal vom Schwimmen durch einen dicken Melville-Roman und das Internet absieht. Die geneigte Anwesenheit quittiert meinen Vorschlag, für einen derart riskanten Trip lieber das Eintrittsgeld zurückzufordern, mit einem Lacher statt allgemeinem Aufbruch. Na also, geht doch! Die Stimme räuspert sich frei und bei ihrem forschen Befehl zum Segelsetzen klettert das seefeste Publikum munter in die Wanten der Pequod und mitten hinein in den alten John-Huston-Schinken von 1956, den ich ja immer noch für den Moby-Film aller Filme halte…

Ungefähr anderthalb Stunden später gehen wir von Bord. Aufgekratzt schwatzend, vom Seewind gegerbt, mit schwankendem Matrosengang. Schütteln uns eine Zeitreise auf der alten “Mayflower” aus den zerzausten Haaren und jede Menge Seesand aus den Schuhen. Haben kichernd von Herrn Melville höchstpersönlich erfahren, dass die Nantucketer die Ostfriesen Neuenglands sind und wie wohlig Ismael und Queequeg beim Chowderlöffeln in Mrs. Husseys Kaschemme schmatzen. Wir mussten mitansehen, wie übel die ach so gottesfürchtigen Pilgerväter den gastfreundlichen Ureinwohnern mitgespielt haben. Durften den eigenen staunenden Augen trauen, dass ein unzufriedenes Filmvolk imstande ist, Father Orson Welles’ Mapples von der Regie erfundene Schiffsbugkanzel in eine reale Seemannskirche zu klagen. Wir wissen jetzt, warum dereinst hungrige Iren gen Amerika segelten, und dank einem schiffbrüchigen Seemann und einem seetüchtigen Literaten auch, wie ein echter Pottwal echte Schiffe versenkt. Wir haben uns in einem brodelnden Hafenbecken unter die Akteure der Boston Tea Party gemischt. Sind am Haus mit den sieben Giebeln des neuenglischen Schreibergottes vorbeigeschlendert, das immer noch steht in Salem. Und haben mit den daselbst ansässigen barfüßigen Hexen getanzt, die sowieso keiner vergisst, der das einschlägige Stückchen Kult-Zelluloid von anno dunnemals noch irgendwo im Hinterkopf hat.

Ach ja, fast hätte ichs vergessen, spontan wird auch ein Publikumsliebling gekürt: Ranzo, der Chanteyman von Massachusetts, samt seinem natürlichen und für Walfängerlieder gemachten Klangkörper. Der steht laut seinem Youtube-Profil auf harmony, dissonance, music, noise, rum, truth, tea & cookies, singt mit sich selber im Duett oder gar im Trio und avanciert einhellig zum Kuschelseebären des Abends. (Der Verwendung seiner Tonbeispiele hat er beiläufig offiziell zugestimmt.) Meine aus Zeitgründen vorgesehene Kürzung seines zurechtselektierten Repertoires wird von der virtuellen Reisegruppe mit grummelndem Protest bedacht und muss als Zugabe nachgereicht werden. Ist das nicht das, wovon man immer mal geträumt hat?: mit Leuten in einem Boot sitzen, die eine Wahl hatten… für das Boot.

Die Frage des Abends (aus dem Parkett links): “Aber Sie sind doch gegen den Walfang?”

Und was das Beste ist: mein finaler Werbespot für eine Fortsetzung der Veranstaltung – die für nächstes Jahr einzufädelnde Moby-Dick-Bloglesung nämlich – wird ebenso gefeiert wie die Aussicht, als Soundtrack dazu die süddeutschen Folker What about Carson in der Hauptstadt mal live zu erleben. Deren wieder mal passende und frechfröhlich über den Küstenhaken von Cape Cod lärmende Sally Brown überaus gut ankommt.

Fazit: Moby Dick kam zwar nicht bis Massachusetts. Den Leuten vom “Tschechow” ins Blut aber schon.

Bilder: Moby Dick: Via, bearbeitet. Mayflower: Stuff from Room 311.
Video: Selber gebaut – zu: Der Hund Marie: Moby Dick. Aus: Hooligans & Tiny Hands. 2006.

Heißen Seemannsdank nochmal an den Wolf, für die Hilfe beim Soundtrack.

Here’s a Black Friday deal that the big-box retailers can’t beat.  Buy the new album from the up-and-coming indie band Ezra Furman and the Harpoons and you’ll get a personalized song thrown in, for no extra charge.  Just send them a letter with your life story (or a condensed version, perhaps), and they’ll churn out a folk-rock ditty with your name on it.

Moon Face: Bootlegs and Road Recordings 2006-2009

Since coming together at Tufts University, Ezra and his band mates have written so many songs and played so many live shows that there were plenty of cuts left off of their first two releases.  Those songs find a home on Moon Face: Bootlegs and Road Recordings 2006-2009 — alongside that unique, personalized track.  There have been more than 100 orders in the first weeks since the album’s release, which means the band will be busy writing odes to its fans during any downtime on its current tour.  (Ezra plays a solo Thanksgiving Eve show tonight at the Lincoln Park Whole Foods in Chicago).

Ezra (in the center of the frame) and the Harpoons

And speaking of harpoons, we’re serving whale for Thanksgiving this year in “Studio 360.”  You can hear all about the classic novel that Ezra’s band took as inspiration as we rebroadcast our Moby-Dick episode, the Peabody Award-winning installment in our “American Icons” series.  Guests include playwright Tony Kushner, artist Frank Stella, and science fiction writer Ray Bradbury.  Get hooked this weekend to find out if Herman Melville’s 1851 masterpiece still holds water. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist.)

- Jordan Sayle

“Dust stanched the wet and naked heads of the scalped who with the fringe of hair below their wounds and tonsured to the bone now lay like maimed and naked monks in the bloodslaked dust and everywhere the dying groaned and gibbered and horses lay screaming.”

— Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West, by Cormac McCarthy

Cormac McCarthy is a ridiculously talented writer and Blood Meridian is considered by many to be his defining work (thus far). Having finished it a few weeks ago, and still being unable to get it out of my head ever since putting it down, I don’t think the book’s praise is just hyperbole.

Blood Meridian is set in the mid 1800s on the American-Mexican borderlands and follows a fourteen year-old protagonist, known only as the kid, as he falls in with the Glanton gang, a group of roving scalp hunters, literally forging their American dream through the murder of countless Native Americans men, women and children. McCarthy’s minimalist prose is at its most effective here, the utilitarian descriptions of chilling scenes working to create a feeling of blase inhumanity and desolation that dwarfs even his latest novel, The Road.

The most memorable character is that of Judge Holden, the Captain Ahab to Blood Meridian’s Moby Dick but McCarthy writes his capitalist monster as something much more immoral than the obsessive whaler, regularly detailing the gang’s key member as a ruthless killer, remorseless pedophile and cunning, cold-blooded intellectual. The kid and the judge emerge as opposing characters but, as McCarthy echoes Melville, it becomes more and more obvious that there is no fitting defeat in sight for Blood Meridian’s depiction of evil and that even the “moral compass” of the story is so warped by his experiences that the only conclusion possible for him is to sink further into the abyss.

If readers fail to look at the larger goal of the novel it’s easy to wonder at the purpose of slogging through so much (seemingly aimless) violence and overwhelming horror. The above quote is one of the tamer conclusions to the text’s frequent scenes of massacre and its easy to get lost in the macabre that McCarthy employs so effectively. Those who are unable to make it through some of the more vicious sequences will miss out on the intended effect of the work however and lose out on experiencing one of the most nuanced and expertly crafted books of the 20th century.

Blood Meridian is a difficult book in many senses, demanding the reader’s ability to tolerate its frequent, stomach-churning violence and often aimless plot pacing, but its ultimate result makes the effort worth it. Cormac McCarthy is one of the few writers working today that will be discussed for generations to come and Blood Meridian earns a place as an American classic that will find ongoing critical company alongside heavyweights like The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and Moby Dick.

There’s a lot to say about the work but these 500 odd words will have to suffice for now. Although it’s not for everyone, Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West is, if nothing else, one of the landmark novels of our generation.

— Reid

Chapter 100: The Pequod, of Nantucket, meets the Samuel Enderby, of London
I saw the Moby Dick exhibit at at the CCA Wattis Institute today. Loved the Rockwell Kent illustrations.
Here’s my Chapter 93: The Castaway.

Cadging a phrase from Moby-Dick’s first chapter, Brooklyn-based Aussie pop-rocker Greta Gertler is calling her current, whaley album project The Universal Thump.

And, in a nod to the speculative nature of a 19th-century whaling expedition, Gertler is looking to investors to fund the recording. Though backers—at set levels ranging from $15 to $10,000—won’t enjoy a cut of the album’s future earnings, they will receive benefits according to their contributions, provided Gertler raises a total of $15,000 by December 9. (Otherwise, no backers pay anything.)

“Pygmy Sperm Whale” donors will pay $15 and receive a digital copy of the eventual album, while “Disoriented Baby Whale” donors pay $125 for a signed CD; a signed, limited edition songbook; a “thank you” in the album’s credits; and a specially designed T-shirt. “Narwhale” ($10,000) donors receive multiple gifts, including a separate album written by Gertler about up to 10 members of the donor’s family, and a set of steak knives.

For New York area music (or whale) lovers who want to be extra supportive, there’s a fundraising concert on December 7 at The Living Room, 145 Ludlow Street in Manhattan. Gertler and her band will be playing music from the album … and if you like it, you’ll still have two days to pony up and collect your steak knives.

Margaret Guroff is editor and publisher of Power Moby-Dick.

Welcome to Moby Dick Monday! This is where we read four pages a day and then post about what we’ve read. Consider it an adventure of sorts!

My Story Re-Cap

Okay, so the book opens with Ishmael telling us how he has no inspiration to do any one thing so he decides to spend some time sailing. He’s apparently a drifter of sorts and much prefers being a sailor over being a passenger. Passengers have to pay for their passage and sailors get paid, so for him the decision is an easy one. A sailor he shall be!

Ishmael has a preference for boats heading out from Nantucket so he decides to bed down at an Inn nearby in an attempt to find work on just such a boat. The Inn passages are hilarious. When he arrives, the bar-man/landlord tells him that he can get him a bed, but that he’ll have to share it with a harpooner. Well, Ishmael doesn’t feel that it’s proper for a sailor to share a bed. Sailors do not share beds. They need their own space so he decides to camp-out on a narrow bench. After testing out the bench he decides that half a bed is better than no bed and tells the landlord that he’ll give the bed a shot.

Once in bed, Ishmael becomes pre-oocupied with his bed mate who has yet to arrive. The harpooner is out and about rather late and the landlord assures Ishmael that he is probably out on a bender and will not be back until morning. Ishmael is pleased to hear this because the bed will be his and his alone and after hearing that this ‘harpooner’ is out selling heads, yes…heads as in heads from people that have been beheaded, he really, really hopes that the harpooner doesn’t come back at all!

So he hits the sack and eventually falls asleep.

After much noise and stomping, in walks the harpooner. He is a large man, a savage for sure and Ishmael spends a good deal of time watching the man prepare for bed. The harpooner has no idea that he has a bed mate so when he hops into bed and finds Ishmael there, he has a bit of a hissy fit and so does Ishmael who ends up yelling for the landlord. After a brief, almost too brief conversation, the harpooner beds down for the night and Ishmael has the best night of sleep he’s ever had.

The next morning Ishmael realizes that the landlord used him to get a good laugh out of the situation but Ishmael takes it all in stride. He appreciates a good laugh, even at his own expense and decides to head out to breakfast. At breakfast, Ishmael sees the harpooner, Queequeg, using his harpoon to spear undercooked pieces of meat and he comes to the realization that no matter how social these sailors are on a boat, they are not social with one another while on land.

My Rambling Thoughts:

The first few pages were incredibly painful to read. It almost felt as if  some punctuation  was missing so I found myself going back to re-read paragraphs just to get the gist of what was being said. However, once I got to the Inn and the harpooner, things started to pick-up from there. Melville’s description of the harpooner (Queequeg) is quite vivid. I was able to easily picture this character in my mind and found him to be quite interesting.

Reading Along With Me:

Jill/Softdrink of Fizzy Thoughts
Jill of RhapsodyinBooks
Dar of Peeking Between the Pages
Eva of A Striped Armchair
Wisteria from Bookworm’s Dinner
Gavin from Page247 (will join us in mid to late December)
Claire from kiss a cloud (will join us in 2010)

For those that are participating, share your post links in comments. What do you think so far? Oh, and if anyone wants to join us just leave me a message below.

When I watch nature documentaries on TV, I find myself experiencing a strange mix of clinical interest and upsetting empathy. I know that animals eat each other, that this is a fact and necessity of nature, but I can’t help pitying that grazing mammal as it hopelessly tries to kick itself free of locked crocodile jaws. For thousands of years of recorded history, humans have expressed a recognition of a similar dilemma as they hunt — the natural necessity of eating on one hand, the sacred value of life on the other.

In “The Pequod Meets the Virgin,” Ishmael weaves a narrative that evokes a similar mix of emotion. The majority of the chapter slowly and excruciatingly details the killing of an enormous and powerful whale, now sick in his old age. Ishmael alternates with pity for the dying, and cold indifference for the killing. But the brutality of the killing itself, undertaken for frivolous reasons, brings us to an uncomfortable moral ground. The whale was “horribly pitiable to see. But pity there was none. For all his old age, and his one arm, and his blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches who preach unconditional inoffensiveness of all to all.” In framing the hunt thus, Ishmael frames the pursuit of whaling as needless, cruel, and unappreciative of the life in sacrifice — a group of bullies taking advantage of the weak.

So too, do we see in the Pequod’s interactions with the incompetent German ship, the Virgin. In competition to harpoon the whale, both crews fight tooth and nail, hurling insults as well as objects as they row into harpoon range. In the end, the Pequod’s boats win out, throwing their harpoons over the heads of the Germans, and knocking the captain out of his boat in the subsequent rush of the pricked whale. The glee with which the Pequod’s mates lord over not only their victory, but the failure of their competitors, complements their cruelty with the whale. Here we have not an unfortunate recognition that one side must win out over the other, but a joyful and abusive wielding of power.

Chapter 81: The Pequod meets the Virgin

Who knew, under placid waters
King Erudition writhes?
Barbed by weaker opposition,
Pitied for muted cries.

Were it head on, no one could resist him,
Strength of a thousand thighs,
But with one prick, hiding in the water,
King Erudition writhes.

And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.
And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.

The good folk, dark if for the pity
Man brings to suicide.
With a cheek turned, live your final moments
Deep in a ponderous mind.

And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.
And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.

Who knew, under placid waters
King Erudition writhes?
With a cheek turned, live your final moments
Deep in a ponderous mind.

And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.
And I, I, I,
Heavy with a grievance, heavy with a grievance.

(c) and (p) 2008 Patrick Shea
Words and music written by Patrick Shea October 6, 2008
All parts performed, arranged, and recorded by Patrick Shea October 31, 2009

Costumo dizer que se a partir de hoje nenhum novo livro fosse publicado, o tempo que me resta de vida não seria suficiente para ler todos os grandes clássicos da literatura mundial. Tendo em minha relação de não lidos alguns dos livros de Dostoiévski, Kafka, Shakespeare, Faulkner, Flaubert, Garcia Márquez, Homero, Thomas Mann e Virginia Woolf, só pra citar alguns, não dá pra perder tempo lendo Stephanie Meyer ou Dan Brown.

Meu primeiro contato com os clássicos aconteceu no começo dos anos 90, quando eu tinha uns 14 anos, através de uma coleção de histórias em quadrinhos chamada Clássicos Ilustrados. Eram edições semanais com adaptações de obras clássicas como Moby Dick, Hamlet, O Conde de Monte Cristo, Grandes Esperanças, A Ilha do Dr. Moreau, A Queda da Casa dos Usher, O Morro dos Ventos Uivantes, A Letra Escarlate, A Ilha do Tesouro e Cyrano de Bergerac (links para a versão .pdf dos quadrinhos de 1990).

Não consigo pensar numa forma melhor de despertar em crianças e adolescentes a paixão pelos grandes clássicos da literatura mundial.

Se você concorda e curte quadrinhos — principalmente adaptações de clássicos — vai gostar de saber que começou a pré-venda de “O Hobbit”, de J.R.R. Tolkien, ilustrado por David Wenzel.

Abaixo, 3 páginas de “O Hobbit” ilustrado (imagens de divulgação – clique para ampliar).

_______________

AVISO AOS LEITORES

O link da pré-venda de “O Hobbit” que aparece nesse texto é meu primeiro como integrante do Programa de Afiliados do Submarino. No entanto, a adesão a esse programa não tem como função gerar algum tipo de renda para o este blogueiro que vos fala: todo o valor arrecadado com as vendas — incluindo os valores gerados pelas compras que eu mesmo fizer — será convertido em doação de livros.

Achei que seria legal comentar.

From a Portuguese ad agency, a set of ideas and their enemies. There are a whole lot more after the jump!

[via]

Sereno Compares Dogcroc with Supercroc

Alligators and Crocodiles strike fear in people.  Can you imagine a 40 foot “SuperCroc?”    The Supercroc still holds the title as the largest known crocodile to roam the earth but who knows if there was a bigger one?   After all, University of Chicago palaeontologist Paul Sereno announced the discovery of the fossil remains of 5 ”new” species of crocodile that measure anywhere from 3 feet to 20 feet.  Today, crocodiles can reach as large as 20 feet but that still is but half of the size of the supercroc.  Some of these species are thought to have been able to eat other dinosaurs.    Another example of how mankind does not know everything and has a lot to learn and discover.  Remember that next time you hear of some scientific report that says something is “settled science” or there is a “consensus.”  That does not make it true.  One thing that is true is that at 9pm on Saturday November 21 the National Geographic Channel will be airing When Crocs Ate Dinosaurs as part of their Expedition Week.

A White Humpback Whale

Dano In The Right Stuff

The photo above is of course from the famous 1956 movie with Gregory Peck starring as Captain Ahab. It also has Richard Basehart and a cameo by Orson Welles as Father Maple. Another guy who shows up is Royal Dano who plays “Elijah” who was a drifter kinda guy who is pretty scary and prophesies to Basehart the the ship would be doomed by a great white whale. Later, Dano in the early 1980’s is the preacher in The Right Stuff who seems to represent death as he shows up at all of the funerals, test flights and space shots. One other interesting aspect of the movie: the screen play was written by Ray Bradbury and John Huston. Huston also directed.

Greenpeace in Battle

On a related note…on this day at this very moment, a small fleet of ships in a Japanese whaling expedition is on its way to the Arctic regions to hunt whales. They want to get 90 sperm whales among other specimens. I say specimens because whaling is banned world wide under an international treaty. But they can be hunted for research. The official mission of the fleet is for research. Yet, when they left port they left to great fanfare and people of small villages in northern Japan claiming they need to whaling so that they may carry on their thousands of years old culture. Greenpeace isn’t buying the scientific aspect and will attempt to thwart the harpooning of the great mammals. Perhaps Moby Dick will resurface and get a bit of revenge.

Tom Horn

On This Date in History: Tom Horn had worked as a US Army scout, deputy sherrif, and Pinkerton

Horn Looks A Little Heavier and Younger Here

Detective in the 19th Century. When General Nelson Miles had need of a “super-scout” to help track down Geronimo, he called on Tom Horn. It has been suggested that Horn even arranged for Geronimo’s surrender. Horn was no shrinking violet. While working for the Pinkerton Agency, he reported killed 17 men. His reputation was such that on one occasion he reportedly simply walked up to an accused robber and killer and announced that he had come for him. The man quietly surrendered rather than face Tom Horn. But, the detective business wasn’t exciting enough and Horn quit, saying, “It was too tame for me.”

In 1894 he was hired by the cattleman’s association in Wyoming to supposedly combat cattle rustlers but in reality was used as an enforcer against small ranchers and homesteaders who got in the way of the cattle barons. In effect, he was the law for the big shots and served as judge, jury and executioner receiving $300 to $600 for each man he took down. See, Horn didn’t see himself as murderer but instead believed that when men in authority, or even the law, hired him, he would be protected. It usually worked out that way. Horn said, “Killing is my specialty. I look at it as a business proposition and I think I have a corner on the market.” He usually lay in wait for his victim and then made his mark by placing a rock under the victim’s head.

Horn Making The Rope For His Own Gallows

But, the law caught up with Horn who was arrested in 1902 for the killing of a 14-year-old son of a settler the year before. In Cheyenne, the cattle barons paid for his defense and a sensational trial ensued with everyone thinking that he would be found not guilty. That was not to be the case. The prosecution had a legal reporter along with federal officer Joe LeFors and a deputy sheriff got a drunken Horn to supposedly confess to the killing. The “confession” was allowed in court and heard by a jury that was stacked with opponents of the cattlemen. Horn was convicted and on this date in 1903, Tom Horn went to the gallows after making the rope that was used in the hanging.

Steve McQueen’s 2nd to last movie was a biopic called Tom Horn with

McQueen Was a Great Tom Horn

Linda Evans, Slim Pickens and Richard Farnsworth. I guess the moral to the story is that no one is above the law and even if you get convicted of something you didn’t do, perhaps it is a justice of nature for all of the things that you did do but for which you were never caught. You may think that this held true for a certain Heismann Trophy, NFL Hall of Famer who is now in prison in Nevada.

A long bio of Horn. A shorter bio of Horn.

Weather Bottom Line:  Weekend looks great, but seasonably cool.

By Cara Nicoletti

In the opening chapters of Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, Ishmael spends his final nights before setting sail aboard the Pequod at the Spouter Inn preparing for his years-long journey at sea. Part of such preparation includes readying oneself for the inevitable periods of dullness and isolation from the rest of the world’s news, finances, friends, and families. This feeling of isolation in which “you stand, lost in the infinite series of the sea, with nothing ruffled but the waves” can prove so intense that “everything resolves you into languor.” It is not so bad, though, this whaling existence, for “a sublime uneventfulness invests you.” Simple thoughts of what to prepare for dinner are burdens spared the sailor–they have other things to dwell on–since “all your meals for three years and more are snugly stowed in casks, and your bill of fare is immutable.”

Perhaps it is because of this dullness—a dullness that extends itself specifically to food—that the only meals mentioned in detail throughout the entire novel are meals eaten before the crew even steps on board their ship. It is at the Spouter Inn the night before setting sail that Ishmael eats a bowl of clam and cod chowder so good, four entire pages are devoted to the experience.

“Oh, sweet friends! hearken to me. It was made of small juicy clams, scarcely bigger than hazelnuts, mixed with pounded ship biscuit, and salted pork cut up into little flakes; the whole enriched with butter, and plentifully seasoned with pepper and salt. Our appetites being sharpened by the frosty voyage, and in particular, Queequeg seeing his favorite fishing food before him, and the chowder being surpassingly excellent, we despatched it with great expedition: when leaning back a moment and bethinking me of Mrs. Hussey’s clam and cod announcement, I thought I would try a little experiment. Stepping to the kitchen door, I uttered the word “cod” with great emphasis, and resumed my seat. In a few moments the savory steam came forth again, but with a different flavor, and in good time a fine cod- chowder was placed before us.”

Whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my father’s soul (or just a damp day outside), he likes to make a heaping pot of his famous chowder. Although we’re from New England where chowder is traditionally made with heavy cream and clams, my father’s recipe calls for a thinner broth and the rich flavor of of salt pork and spicy Portuguese sausage. It is the best I’ve had, and I’d certainly prefer this chowder recipe to any other before three deck-swabbing years fueled by moldy biscuits and watery beer.

CLAM CHOWDER FOR WHALING
WITH SPICY PORK SAUSAGE

Serves 8 people (+/- depending on how much milk or cream you add)

INGREDIENTS:

• 2 medium Vidalia onions, diced
• 2.5 pounds Yukon Gold potatoes (half a 5 pound bag…duh), chopped into half-inch cubes
• 2 tablespoons butter
• 1 tablespoon olive oil
• 2 quarts steamer clams with snouts
• 2 cups of linguica (This is a spicy Portuguese sausage. If you can’t find it go with chorizo, but do try to find the linguica. There is no flavor comparison between the two.)
• 2 ears sweet corn (Frozen corn is fine.  My dad won’t use it because of many a truly horrifying childhood dinner involved cans of creamed corn, but good fresh corn is nearly impossible to come by this time of year so we’ll make do). If you use frozen corn add about 2 cups.
• Dash of thyme
• Dash of cayenne
• Generous amount of ground black pepper
• Sea salt
• Parsley
• Whole milk
• Light cream
• Flour (Only if you want a thicker New England style broth—I say go without.)
• Oyster crackers

DIRECTIONS:

1. The hardest part of this recipe is getting the clams clean. Nothing will take your appetite away quite like biting down onto a sandy clam, though, so the labor of cleaning them is worth it. Throw away any clams with shells that are closed tightly or cracked. Submerge the clams in a pot of cold water and let them soak. Continue to change the water over a period of about 3 hours until the water you dump into the sink is running clear. If they’re especially tricky you may want to try adding black pepper to the pot to make them sneeze the sand out (really!).
2. Once the clams are clean, bring the water and the clams to a boil, then turn off the heat. The shells should all be open by this time. If not, continue boiling.
3. Take the clams from the water, and save the water. Remove the clams from the shells and take off the sheath that covers the snouts. Put clams to the side.
4. Boil the cubed potatoes in the clam broth until half cooked (still a bit firm—don’t overcook!). They will cook some more once in the stock.
5. In a large pot, sauté the linguica in the butter and olive oil. Remove from pan when brown and crackly—put aside for later use. Cook the onions in the pan drippings from the pork until they are translucent. Drain off some of the remaining grease.
6. Add onions, clams, and some of the pork cracklings, the corn, salt, pepper, cayenne to the pot with the stock and potatoes and bring all the ingredients to a boil. My dad likes to then put the chowder into the fridge and let it sit for a few hours before serving so that all the flavors really marry together, but if you don’t have the time it’s no big deal.
7. Heat milk and cream in a separate pan (equal parts according to how many bowls you’ll be dishing out). Reheat the stock and ladle into individual bowls, adding the milk/cream mixture as desired. Top off with pork cracklings and parsley and serve with oyster crackers (N.B. if you do desire a thicker soup add flour to stock to taste, but again, I recommend not doing this, I think the flour dulls the flavor).

Sarebbe inutile, probabilmente, cincischiare con l’indimenticabile trasposizione visiva melvilleiana di John Huston, a maggior ragione se ci si schiera con coloro che ne innalzano la semantica a ben più che mera novella scolastica e/o classicista. Al contempo si rischia di giocarsi l’arringa decantando le lodi di un romanzo epocale, finendo con l’incensare il film solo per dovere morale. In questo senso, la storiografia cinematografica gli è grata, perchè concomitanze favorevoli – la sommità di Gregory Peck, un Ray Bradbury in veste di sceneggiatore, la credibilità all’apice di Huston, il cammeo magnetico di Wells – consentono di archiviarvi sugli annali una squisitezza senza tempo, inossidabile anche sforzandoci di scordare la possanza impenetrabile – e in un certo senso infilmabile – della Storia con cui si cimenta: allo stesso modo in cui quella di Cesare Pavese ne rimane la più appagante traduzione nostrana, così il cinema trova nella lettura di Huston – ben noto per le velleità grafomani – la sua più compiuta versione. Non è che sia particolarmente esclusivo o palesemente epicheggiante e metafisico; la forma e il ritmo precorrono la tensione narrativa di vent’anni dopo, che avrebbe reso incassi milionari a Spielberg e alla sottocategoria marina del genere avventura; è risaputo, nondimeno, che nel caso-Melville la novella marinaresca sia leggera allegoria per uno scope ben più sotterraneo della lapalissiana letteratura d’evasione: così, il sinodo Achab/Moby Dick finisce col rappresentare un conflitto puro, il pugno di ferro dell’uomo monomane ben stretto sulla causa umanista atta a reprimere un pantocratore indifferente, beffardo nel nascondere la sua vera natura, almeno nella misura in cui la foggia blasfema del capitano si esplica e scevra di ogni immaginabile reticenza, cementificandone la risolutuezza nello scovare “quella cosa  malvagia che perseguita l’uomo dalla notte dei tempi”; la nevrosi pompa l’emoglobina da quei morsi che l’incedere degli anni riesce malapena a cauterizzare; Achab è dannato, signori, e gli strali di presagi neri ammantano la ciurma incosciente/inconsapevole, tessono l’insania riscattatrice covata tra le traiettorie segnate dai rintocchi insonni sul pontile, e fanno degli arponieri primigeni dei fistoli sgrananti un trittico letale di ganasce temprate. Vetusto e supponente finchè si vuole, il concetto si cristallizza in parabola (anti)religiosa sui tre quarti e i primi piani di un uomo aggrumato ed ipnotico, un Gregory Peck gonfio di carisma aureo, che getta iridescenza sulfurea sul legno e sulle pupille vitree, e che sputa al cielo, maldicendo qualunque pretesa ieratica. Con la sopravvivenza di Ismaele, un incarnato di Giona come un altro, si compiono la volontà divina, il testamento e il monito per l’umanità intera a non ripercorrere i sentieri claudicanti e diabolici di un uomo, Achab, punito solo per aver scagliato la pietra della ribellione. Che egli passi, dunque, solo per rigor di cronaca.

Cuando hace unos meses titulé una entrada “Rickie Lee Jones en las hogueras del infierno”, no tenía ni idea de que iba a pasarme un buen rato con ella allí.
No sé quién tuvo la brillante idea de celebrar el concierto de RLJ en Madrid en la Sala Caracol. Quizás este sea un buen sitio para ir a dar saltos, como el otro día con mis amados Temper Trap en Moby Dick, o para una fiesta de la espuma o liarse la toallita y ligar como en una sauna, pero desde luego no es el sitio para escuchar a un dinosaurio como la Jones.
¿No podían haber puesto unas putas sillitas?
¿Nadie sabía donde se conectaba el puto aire acondicionado?
Una hora después de que la duquesa de Coolsville comenzara su actuación, la chica que estaba a mi lado se desmayó, de pura deshidratación y calorina, literalmente rendida a los pies de su diabólico ídolo. Rickie enarcó un pelín las cejas (solo un pelín) al ver a aquella pobre tumbada con los pies en alto (¿a qué me recuerda a mí esto?) y dijo: “Sentadla, sentaos… Sentaos todos… Creo que incluso yo voy a sentarme”. Pero nadie lo hizo, ni ella. Yo soy muy aprensivo. Entre mis propios churretones de sudor, la cara fallecida de la pobre chica (que al levantarla entre su novio y el típico soy-médico-soy médico no paraba de repetir “qué vergüenza, qué vergüenza”) y la espesísima chaqueta que cubría el rotundo cuerpo de RLJ, yo también empecé a encontrarme mal, a no saber qué quitarme ya (mis tiempos de stripper quedaron atrás), a si beber o no beber, a buscar dónde apoyarme o dónde vomitar. El caso es que al final conseguí que mi cerebro le dijese al resto de mi cuerpo que yo podía con todo aquello y mucho más, que por infiernos mucho más cutres me he paseado y que oye, estaba en primera (primera no, primerísima) fila y a mí Rickie Lee Jones no me iba a ver caer como una pera madura. A mitad de la preciosa versión que hizo de “The last chance Texaco” conseguí dominarme.
Total que, aparte del calor, de estar dos horas de pie sin moverte (la RLJ actual da para marcar el ritmo con el pie y balancearte mínimamente en un par de ocasiones, no más) y lo frío que es generalmente el público en Madrid, todo fue bastante bien. Bastante mejor que la última vez en La Riviera, en la gira de “The Sermon on…”
En un aspecto más frívolo (que a mí me mola mucho), destacar que Rickie Lee, sorprendentemente, ha mejorado mucho. No es, claro, la chica terriblemente sexy de los 80, pero comparada con la Jones de los últimos años, qué quieres que te diga, estaba hasta guapa, sin la cara demacrada con la que aparece en el vídeo que colgó Federico en YouTube o el aspecto espantoso de mis dos anteriores conciertos de ella.
Y también ha mejorado su actitud. Sin ser un encanto, no ha derrochado malas formas ni comentarios despectivos ni malas caras, como otras veces. Es más, yo la encontré casi (casi) simpática. L., que como ya he comentado alguna vez es una fan fan de verdad, la encontró “guapísima” y “rejuvenecidísima” (“seguro que está enamorada otra vez”, añadió con voz ensoñadora). Hombre, ya he dicho que L. es una fan-fan total… Pero es cierto que Jones está mejor. Que iba casi arreglada (dentro de un baremo yanqui y bohemio, claro) y que estuvo correcta y agradecida, sin pasarse.
Yo diría que el concierto fue estupendo en su mayoría, con una RLJ que también ha mejorado mucho de voz respecto a anteriores ocasiones por aquí, alcanzando registros y modos muy de sus comienzos; dándole a las guitarras (3) con precisión y aporreando el piano menos precisamente. En las canciones más “intimistas” (que diría algún listo), el combo Rickie, Sal Bernardi (guita, teclados, armónica) y Rob Wasserman (contrabajo), funciona muy bien y por allí pasaron maravillas, especialmente “Bonfires”, del último CD, que es preciosa, triste y brutal.
Pero estar de pie escuchando canciones como “A tree on Allenford” o “It Takes you there”, a 100ºC, no es precisamente el plan de mi vida, por mucho que “Bonfires”, “We belong together” o “The moon is made of gold” me puedan hacer volver a sentir como si nunca hubiese pasado de los 15 años.
Y es en las canciones más festivas de Rickie donde el concierto se mueve mejor, todos nos movemos un poco mejor y donde aparece como la leyenda golfa y cachonda que también es: “Weasel and the White Boys Cool”, “Young Blood” o “Satellites” (que nunca falla). Pero es precisamente en estas canciones donde ves los huecos de esta versión de la banda: Jones necesita, con urgencia, un buen percusionista (ya que no parecen estar los tiempos para cargar con una batería entera), un buen guitarrista (Sal Bernardi siempre ha sido un músico mediocre y solo me hizo feliz con la armónica), unos cuantos vientos (un detalle siempre genial en muchas canciones de RLJ) y un bajo de rock (Rob Wasserman es un músico estupendo, pero no es un bajista de rock, menos aún de R&B, y se mueve bien –muy bien- en las “intimistas”, pero falla estrepitosamente en los números golfos de Rickie (algunos de ellos sus verdaderas joyas -¿dónde están Woody & Dutch, Rickie?-).
Por poner más peros, Rickie Lee se permitió destrozar una canción tan bonita como “Living it up” en función de no sé muy bien qué recreaciones absurdas, y no pudo dejar de cantar algo de “Ghostyhead” para que nos acordásemos de lo moderno que era ese álbum, de lo moderna que es ella. Y no hacía ninguna falta. Como no hace ninguna falta seguir cantando “Coolsville” como si estuviese aún en 1979. O como no le va, pero nada, el papel de mística iluminada.
No hizo concesiones. No cantó casi nada de lo que esperaban algunos (“Chuck E’s in love”, “The Horses”, “Flying cowboys”), tocó muchas del álbum nuevo (pero no “Old enough”, el precioso tema con Ben Harper) y, como siempre, demostró su carácter indicando cada dos por tres a Wasserman qué, cómo y cuándo.
¿Quién hace dos bises con dos canciones nuevas que no conoce nadie? Pues Rickie Lee Jones, que nos cantó la preciosa “The gospel of Carlos, Norman and Smith” y nos mandó para casa. Jodidos (por la deshidratación) pero contentos.

Nota: Vi a Javier Alvarez, al que encuentro siempre en conciertos de RLJ. Como siempre también, me faltó valor para acercarme a él y decirle que “Ya no te acuerdas de mí” es una de las canciones más bonitas que conozco y que siempre que la escucho me quedo turulato. No me atreví porque, a pesar de lo que algunos opinan, yo soy un tipo muy tímido. Y porque la cara que se gasta Javier, generalmente, no invita tampoco.

“The Gospel of Carlos, Norman and Smith” (Madrid, 17/11/2009 – Vídeo de jorgetaus, que debía estar pegadito a mí)

Jorge tiene otros seis vídeos del concierto en YouTube

*Lists: The 2000’s lists are beginning to come out. According to NPR, these are the 50 Most Important Recordings of the Decade. I didn’t appear on any of them. Though I have recorded a track-for-track remake of “For Emma, Forever Ago.” For personal reasons. In the shower.

*Holidays: Spread the holiday spirit! Santas as H1N1 catalyst. [spin city]

*Life: Will intelligent alien creatures look like us? Dollars to donuts, I am balder than any alien discovered in my lifetime. And I am a man of my word, so please collect if I’m wrong. [marginal revolution]

*Photos: Look at these Re-inhabited Circle Ks. Most of my knowledge of the Circle K franchise comes to me from Bill and Ted’s various cinematic adventures. In a way, that’s a cry for help. [eat me daily]

*Quizzes: I hate quizzes, but I got 10 out of 12 on this one. Is This Music Web Site Real? On a related note, MySpace might now be trying to buy Imeem. (I used to know more about this shit.)

*Literature: Read Moby Dick online. I once read “Crime and Punishment” on Bartebly over a series of unbearably boring work days. I didn’t feel bad about it, either. (Get it? One of the themes of C&P is undeniable guilt? Hello? Ugh.) [ebert]

*Ideas: Gladwell v. Pinker

*Obits: Wow, Ken Ober (former host of MTV’s “Remote Control”) has died at 52.

*Today’s links: F. Though I almost made it to a D- by not mentioning the Word of the Year.

For everyone who already frequents my blog, my blog is now featured on Haligonia.ca, a local website that features all sorts of local content, which is pretty damn’d awesome if I may say so myself. I am thrilled to welcome a whole new fleet of Haligonians to the wonderful world of Glen Matthews.

And now, to welcome said fleet.

Every good blog (and let me tell you, my blog is effing awesome) has a general theme. This blawg’s theme is me, The Glen Matthews. But what do I do? I am an actor! Fun, right? SO the purpose of this blog is to invite you to follow me in my various exploits in the film industry!

This is my headshot. I like it, it covers up my self-loathing very well!

Most notably, I worked on MOBY DICK, featuring Ethan Hawk, William Hurt, Gillian Anderson, and a bunch of other actors who are much prettier than me (click here for blog entries regarding Moby Dick). A couple of weeks ago, I worked on Cory Bowles‘ second short film RIGHTEOUS, which of course, I blogged about. Last year, I went to Sundance Film Festival with the short film TREEVENGE (blogged the entire adventure to Park City, Utah here) directed by Jason Eisener, who is currently in pre-production for his first major motion picture HOBO WITH A SHOTGUN, to be shot here in the Spring.

Impressed? You shouldn’t be, it’s merely a series of lucky encounters & mind-blowing coincidences that make quantum physics look like a set of building blocks.

You can check out my page on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Glen-Matthews/) where you can watch plenty of videos of me doing things, and determine whether or not you can tolerate me enough to become a fan of mine. I implore you to do so, it improves your life!

All that I hope to do is offer a definitive timeline to accompany my raise to fame & riches (lots of riches), and my inevitable battle with Ellen Page for Halifax’s affection. I invite you to follow my adventures in the film & theatre industries and live your life vicariously through mine.

-Glen

PS. This entry was riddled with truthy sarcasm. The worst kind.

PSS. Seriously, please like me.